Poem Hunter


Poem By Glenn Bagshaw

You think it's magic that light will climb the skies,
that mind's inner math measures volumed world,
and branch bobs bird as bird with branch replies;
that no heart mends at midnight- whirl when hurled
spins and twirls toy top. We forever hope
charms bind us; but not magic to be knot;
Spells slip taut ties; then they scale slackened rope
reared in air- disappear- clear gone when sought.
But lives are greater magic. Death's forever.
We're last-act rabbits lost in stage-show hat.
Life's so short; so almost-nearly-never;
dead ever in etcetera, just like that.
Flick of fate's cuff when it's too late to check...
viably speaking, you're palmed from the deck

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