It's a snipe of time, this walking at dusk,
staring at me - the telltale sign of impending doom - to look at again as though to impossibly slow the day into night, yet never to accomplish show colors, bursts of color. We'll start earlier next time, before the rush, before the dim, the mansions bellow of aging things we never saw before, the cloud of remembrance, never to take back what was gained or lost, never to travel that dusk day again. Let's talk of breathing - rightly, if we can take a moment to ponder further operations - metabolic impulses they are - to train the mind, to move when lethargy says it will come again - tomorrow with likely be similar, but strangely opposed. With another, legs are energized, enlivened, taken another mile a distance just beyond that shadow, the emblem of leaves dead, but living in dusk, in the fog of life, it's there and we can see, how far we should go when we reach the tree. © 2016 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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