Philosophical Poetry Week: Transient Tuesday
I am a misprint,
Ink blot on love,
I remain a maybe
Longing for fact,
No speck of lint,
A hand in glove.
Thunder; a baby
Will only react
When you etch
Parallel clouds,
Whistling on cue
To a dead town.
Dream a sketch
Of silent crowds
Becoming you,
This boiling crown
Chews thought
Into flagellation.
Holes in the walls
To spy through,
Seeking a sort
Of bricked-up sun.
A heaven of halls,
All leaving you.
Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment