Peter Davis © 2005 All Rights Reserved
On the road home
the sky wearied
from the cosmic weight
on its vast shoulders.
The sun moved by the ocean,
going home, not coming back,
the moon sobbing behind storm-clouds.
In the near distance,
the road does not narrow
to a point, some fine lineó
The horizon buckles and opens its jaws
to swallow the on-comers.
The mountains crack and tremble.
The seas cease their movement.
The last symphony sharpens its fatal instruments.
Across the blind bend,
the world edges to its end
I reside in the Chicago area, Illinois, and am pursuing a Masters degrees in Psychology (National-Louis U.) and English (Chicago State U.). I lived in Nigeria for ten years, 1980 to 1990. (I am a Leo.) My poems have been published, or are upcoming, in Virginia Advesaria, Caveat Lector, Barbaric Yawp, and some e-zines. In between writing poems, I think and live poems.
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