Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
the shuffling men huddle in the lighted room eyes glue to shoes the miles a man treads are the measure of his soul and these worn feet are men to move mountains with bare hands tinge the conversation with the propaganda of innocence priesthood of crafted reality puts good and true men prostrate to the graven images of a better world when all that is accomplished is the slow decay rotting fruit of our collective wishes our collective hopes a man on fire his hand to the road that i must travel like a cool drop of rain in the blast furnace heat like a woman's smile after years of being alone like the taste of real hope after the road has come here this strange strange place at the end of the world one hundred and ten men in this dark hall waiting for the storm to let waiting for the sun waiting for a better world one man waits in the rain surreal in his mind the day has evaporated and as the shadows of night crawl into his eye he dreams aloud that she has come home to him that things never went astray that we could be our happy little family again
0
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
too profound...
the shuffling men huddle in the lighted room eyes glue to shoes the miles a man treads are the measure of his soul and these worn feet are men to move mountains with bare hands tinge the conversation with the propaganda of innocence priesthood of crafted reality puts good and true men prostrate to the graven images of a better world when all that is accomplished is the slow decay rotting fruit of our collective wishes our collective hopes a man on fire his hand to the road that i must travel like a cool drop of rain in the blast furnace heat like a woman's smile after years of being alone like the taste of real hope after the road has come here this strange strange place at the end of the world one hundred and ten men in this dark hall waiting for the storm to let waiting for the sun waiting for a better world one man waits in the rain surreal in his mind the day has evaporated and as the shadows of night crawl into his eye he dreams aloud that she has come home to him that things never went astray that we could be our happy little family again
i miss her and i miss my daughter
mark-john-junor-1
Written by
59/M/American
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem