Weeps And Shudders

the hands on the clock
crawl from need to despair,
from despair to the edge,
from the edge to the fall...

they call it flight!
the gift of the body
to the spirit,
of the spirit to the night.

i call it nails,
the to and fro saw,
dust on the floor,
and dust becomes dust!

the river names itself,
when it breaks through the rocks.
the rocks shout with joy,
the night weeps and shudders!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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