The Pilgrimage: Part 21 / Phillip Neal Tippin

The moon lost its head
As it rose up the night.

Oh for
The same
Every day—
Growth in love
And in death,

One can hardly pull from today,
The past is pulled from, built on,
The days that do their work, then,
Are today.

Cliché ridden mount
Rifle riddled fount
Of Sincerity’s hold.

Cliché to the rich,
Wealth of the poor.

What do we know of
To speak of 

So few words
With which 
To meet you.

Coming to grips is
A coming to blows.

All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2020-2021 by Phillip Neal Tippin. All rights reserved.

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