© 2017 Steve King
All rights reserved
The blind view
and that hot rain—
each new storm
a sudden death,
soon again.
The recalculation
of every old move:
merely an echo,
a hard refrain.
The world will turn.
I cannot say
where true horizons fall.
Light to night,
night upon light,
every age must scribe its own,
though
some stand everywhere alone.A new poem for Friday 55 with Joy Jones
http://versiscape-lifesentences.blogspot.com/
