by BOB GALLO   Sep 18, 2023

Like a drowning man holding on to his only lifeline,
our remaining time is our last hope
to persuade perpetuity by any means.

The survivance that seizes
every mean to throw off dissolution.

To grab onto anything afloat
to rescue our individual consciousness,
even when there is no time left,

to again feel the thread in our hands
to pule ourselves to continue,
to unroll our own reel of chances,
the perspective,
parallel lines that unite in distance
unrolling from our future to our pasts.

The ropes,
threads that are loose
or tied to the destination,
for a brief cruise amongst the fields of life:
mountains, and rivers,

amongst the tactile worlds of objects,
the outer side of beauty.
The world that is split to left and right, good and bad,
Beautiful and unbeautiful,
to sustain
it’s very beauty.

pain to recognize pleasure,
stillness splitting to the waves,

a film
a spiral excursion that is rolling to some end,
to some conclusion,

the pedigree effect of lines,
a cruise in space to reclaim omnipresence.


Did You Like This Poem?

Latest Comments