the music.. the music
oh dear father the sonnet that you've made.
how little this sound from my memory fades.
the music of footsteps walking rapidly to the door,
and the sound of a weeping mother's heart, falling fast to the floor.
the music of your engine, as it purred violently to life,
the music of a little girl watching, and hearing much too precise.
after the music devolved and the little girl was tucked to bed,
the sonnet lived on much quietly, in the chambers of her head.