poet James McLain

James McLain

It Is A Desolate Wave

Jumbling imaginings not loves hate
hates love tranquil sea rouge waves.
Fields unknown alien thought thinking
thinking thought loops eyes to cross.
Nailing lid palette tongue cannot hear
fearing fields lay shallow unmarked so
renamed unknown anguish marking why.
Senseless graves dug making no since
personal ids to grovel loose paths brick.
Roaming insecure pillow less head hurts
medicating a numb tomorrows thought.
Forever gracious thought to be or not
baseless from which I came travel again.
Humble thimble needles pin headed ant
knows even it's destiny waterless in sand.
Shimmering imaginative it is desolation to field

Poem Submitted: Thursday, April 2, 2009

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