my comment for you, M.O.

THE words are few
each syllable keeps a code
i confess i do not
understand any
but i repeat each again
like i am
a Buddhist chanter
in midnight peace
as sleep chases me
and makes love
in my slumber
it is joy to be with it again
seeing heaven
God's face that they all have
been spitting
i confess again
i cannot understand for i am not at peace
with my past
insufficient for my future
and badly making the present
on a twisted morning
i read the lines again
brief crisp
sounding like my
worst poems....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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