Hear the aubade on the radio.
There is nothing poetic here.
It is the clockwork of the world.
It will happen again
again
again
and.
We tire.
So it goes.
But there are no bangs.
No screams.
No silence.
Dreams come like hail-fall
My heart turns with the gears.
The ice is melting.
And so it goes.
I will never tire.
YOU ARE READING
Anarchy
PoetryAnarchy. A swirl of topics: emotions, allusions to history, social issues... And somewhere in the maelstrom comes forth rhymes and prose. Note: If you can't be bothered to read all the poems (quite understandably), I've starred the better ones.
