Peter Levy Poems

The owl has made its move
In splendor, as is fresh death
A peaceful rest for broken wings
That yearn no more for breath.
...

Life is sold, and love is bought
I am the blame
And I weep into my constant thought
Of that, that has no name.
...

“The rains have not come again” he moaned
His eyes frozen to the skies
He wiped his brow with some oily rag
And steeled his face disguise.
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There is no future
We drift inside space
Illusion in delusion
We stumble with grace.
...