We would walk
by the TV sets at dawn --
and watch as Mister
P. oozed oil on
to the fire.
Feeling as
mud walls in a blaze or numb--
as cotton pods; who
could tell the
difference?
The silence,
spreading under our watchful
eyes, blinding us
with nothing less than
ambivalence.
Our failings,
dodged us, their blanched veneers
like windowless
houses desolate
once again.
And once more,
we circled beneath the freshly
clotted copper
sheen of sunset --
unaware.
1 comment:
A beautiful poem. And more so, since its name name couldn't have been any more apt.
In passing:
"All that is gold does not glitter; not all those that wander are lost."
-J.R.R. Tolkein
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