poetic scribble by Bob Axell 2009


The day is gray
The night is old
Three ways away
I sold my soul

A decades play
A lifetimes work
Three wifes in May
I may berserk

Those taken damage
These barren souls
That life does image
But not control

I left them famished
Inside a bowl
A bowl of wheat
Their souls don't eat

So there they starve
Under open stars
In woven tradition
By Oakland park

They see the living
They see it last
They feel no time
Yet deem it passed

In search for shelter
For bitter of time
The souls of surplus
Reach sublimity

Their seeds divine
They reap infinity
Seizeless and prime
Teach to confine

The label of losses
The laws of despair
My soul is in anguish
When I am somewhere near