There are times when they croon
a little too loud and a little too soon
Like the rusty strings of a widowed piano
that prefers to be out of tune
There are times when they speak,
spilling compassion in a timbre too reedy
Through porous tongues and lacerated gums
that have since forgotten how to believe
There are times when they remind,
a handwritten exegesis of why leaves rot before they descend
Rubbing pencil and tablet together–
one made of flint
The other, of obsidian
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:27 PM UTC
There are times when they croon
a little too loud and a little too soon
Like the rusty strings of a widowed piano
that prefers to be out of tune
There are times when they speak,
spilling compassion in a timbre too reedy
Through porous tongues and lacerated gums
that have since forgotten how to believe
There are times when they remind,
a handwritten exegesis of why leaves rot before they descend
Rubbing pencil and tablet together–
one made of flint
The other, of obsidian
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