//The Last song//

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  • Emotional

    //The Last song//

    The words are getting thin 
    like me, mounting 
    time and ugliness
    and drying up
    like me, gliding
    time and grayness
    and hollowing 
    like me, in a whirlpool 
    of time and tiredness.

    How can I sing
    for the bird
    who flew off an hour ago
    who crossed the fence
    that distinguishes 
    me from my neighbour!

    My words are under arrest
    handcuffed with a freedom 
    that can not cross 
    the barb or a bark.
    the words don’t have muscle 
    those outwit the force.

    It jingles sometimes
    to make me inhale, 
    or exhale puberty
    or walled within a
    asphyxiated memory

    Do I still carry a song
    still to burden my family?
    Or justify an ode to the
    My white inked look!

    I know the bird never knew
    I barbed my fence
    to stop her fly
    forested words
    and gathered around
    the sounds
    to stone at her.

    How can I fetch it back
    when all are exhausted?

    A song??
    Without a bird?
    Impossible
    That could be heard no more.

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    Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    abhash0’s Poems (41)

    Title Comments
    Title Comments
    // manifestation // 0
    //Let’s love// 0
    Dream 0
    a sound 0
    // Signature// 0
    //No more// 0
    // forever// 0
    //She// 0
    //Crawl// 0
    //The old man// 0
    //The Last song// 0
    //friend// 0
    //Bracket// 0
    // Mask2// 0
    //..shadow-3/
    /
    1
    // Mask-3// 0
    //Beyond// 0
    //Monsoon// 0
    //Shadow –II// 0
    // cadaver// 0
    //Identity// 0
    // leaf // 0
    //breath// 0
    //A song// 0
    // ma // 0
    //Death// 0
    //CRY// 1
    //Truth// 1
    //Room// 0
    //Words// 0
    //Shoes// 0
    //An Envelope// 0
    //Friend// 0
    Cylinder 0
    //face// 0
    //Plateau// 0
    //Night// 0
    // Memory// 1
    //Stories// 0
    Reflection 0
    Victory 2