Gold and Silver - Gord - Aspoet
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Gord

2020-09-11 05:58 am
Drinking Bowls and pitchers,
like smoking coals and timber;
If only bones could lift,
Our home, save the children,
Even buried having all gold and silver,
Can an afterlife supply of groves and vineyards?

Old and crippled, mouth of the old man dribbles,
His eyes meet to eventually form a river;
How can he romance with trombones and singers, 
When he sees and himself, groans and withers, 
Lays down again amongst the toads and lizards;
Eyes hollow and wrinkled, bathrobe, slippers,
Windows, the stones that hit them, now coal,
Used to build all the roads and bridges.

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