A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.

LETTER FROM BOB

I will admit
A craving to travel,
While I suck and spit,
Rearranging
the gravel,

Dream on - Bob,
Dream on . . .

Till no stone
is left unturned,

There's no real chance
For a searching soul
To escape
from the trance
Of a goldfish bowl,

Dream on - Bob,
Dream on . . .

Glasshouse lessons 
still unlearned,

It's a dream of mine
To swim a straight line,
An ocean, 
a river
Or even a stream,

Dream on - Bob,
Dream on . . .

To be out of reach,

should the cat bore of cream . . .








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