Never far to plug your
feet, never stumbling water greets nights - And morning, steel is the tower - The pod is king or queen over sound and life. It creeps, clinging to the best of intentions, and walks, a companion of sorts, sorting through who is and is not stable and fleet of foot. And alarms at night or morning - or deep in sleep - it knows or cares not of that - but blares of precious lines. This reveille pierces the night, begs forgiveness or slaughter, smashing of the pod that brings such a torrent - to dash all hope of sleep. But hope is tied to the pod, to the blaring horror, to the white, curled legs the wheels managing moves to here or there, to plug or not, to store and then reserve the line. Guarding life itself, or diluted water, air the instigator, to know this danger, of air disturbing a churning machine barely milling drips of poisonous remedy. A friendly gesture, though bringing life, killing what must be killed, the enemy it knows or doesn't, the cancer of sorts that menaces and dares to battle. Hold fast to water and engines and churning mixtures, to this darling of life, strong and nimble for walking or not, stretching down sterile halls, it knows its chance for sounding life. © 2013 Larry Ingram
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Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture. Categories
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