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An Empty Raft Against the Ocean
S. Crowe
Seas of still water/ trees of dancing
fire. What more can be asked of a man.
Gun play/ stores open then close/
Vicious dogs snapping toward sunset.
Morning awakes like peddles of a newly
blossomed nasturtium. Tables and chairs are placed
in an empty corner.
Men remember the triumphs of
their youth- a youth decayed in future
fever pitch.
We are but visions of our own wondering,
memories standing against a flood of thoughts.
We are souls forgotten for a time, living
under the city bridge, clamoring in the cold,
as winter with her arms encloses.
Seas of still water/ trees of dancing
fire. What more can be asked of a man.
Gun play/ stores open then close/
Vicious dogs snapping toward sunset.
Morning awakes like peddles of a newly
blossomed nasturtium. Tables and chairs are placed
in an empty corner.
Men remember the triumphs of
their youth- a youth decayed in future
fever pitch.
We are but visions of our own wondering,
memories standing against a flood of thoughts.
We are souls forgotten for a time, living
under the city bridge, clamoring in the cold,
as winter with her arms encloses.
Published 24th Feb 2011
| Edited 16th Mar 2011
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