Saturday, June 18, 2011

Where Dreams Go to Die

A Poem for Black Saturday

All those dreams
stirred-up
carefully cultivated
then yearned into substance

were lost
in a quick succession of events
observed through eyes half-asleep.

The days after passed;
hours were weeks
prying at clinched fists,
till each man
hiding in a locked room
in confused impotence
gave up and lost hope.

1 comment:

C7 said...

I enjoyed this. Sorta hit the spot for what's on my mind today, actually.

C7