The Last Stage

a crooked line straightens itself
finally with a beeping sound, not once,
penetrating, traveling to an insistence,
it is turned off. A sob from a little girl
beside the bed. A punch on the wall
of a man's fist. A white blanket covering
a pair of eyes. Blankness.

a caravan of nomads, a camel a desert
a dark night, full moon, a distant call and then
sleep and silence.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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