I would be bored to tears if tears could sing of rocks
dancing, or girls singing songs that sweep life aside, to make the next book a silent repose, there on the couch they lie of real countenance, real efforts to drag the excited response of novel ending. It's sad to think of dialogue unsaid and reality that this one will not ever say, to remind the person to speak in a dialect that all can understand, a brogue that makes coffee for drink and brew that's too wealthy for salty eyes, ready for a good cry. Hardly ever do we see our kids in this state, in this way of dozing, slapping life from the jar, from cookies ready to be had instead of lunch, just white bread that we usually see, rarely toasted for fear of heavy eyes, heavy faces solidly behind the off white. Is it gray or simply another foggy day, fog that brings us closer to a remedy for sleep, taking turns at the night, a soldier stands at attention, the penalty for sleep being death by Lewis, Clark standing in approval though any of us could be a nightmare away. The squad is certainly one way to shock the senses awake and full of caffeine, standing at attention, backs up against the wall, to take a hint from the dark ages when people also did sleep, but highly unlikely to breed dissent from sleepy lullabies. © 2015 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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