With a yawn the streetlights go on
unenthusiastically, in instinctive uniform.
Last bus leaves, drunk tramps who miss it
consequently steal bikes for the wobbly journey home.
No words of wisdom.
Too late now, and soon to be too early.1
I try to write about sunsets,
but the sun always sets while I’m not looking.
Like the meaning of the binomial theorem,
it escapes me.
No praise songs to Apollon.
Too late now, and soon to be too early.2
Comments
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Nice poem,kind of sad,I liked it.I tried to get a meaning out of it but this must be too deep,and deep poems like this always sound good.All the image is wonderfull,and the way you write easy and understandable.The finish was kind of nostalgic.Nice job Amigo!
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