have you ever felt a masterwork in your heart?
          a repertoire of delicate sounds, of heartstrings and chords manifested?
tell me, far away, you can hear mine own, relentless thrum of the borrowed and forsaken, the lost and weary ,
hear its rising echo off alleyways and dim streetlights and broken windows and the backseat of your car, tell me
i am not deaf to a thousand sighs when
i can feel the sinews pulling towards the light, when
i know they tighten in repose and soften in memory.

i read somewhere that the world ends not with a bang but a whimper.

but eliot was wrong, because mine ended before it ever left my mouth.