in the cut in his high
i find my minor chord
that transitional backdrop
to renew a world filled with dust and broken glass

a small broom sitting crookedly in a crowded corner
an invitation burned at the sides
and an apology in a glistened paper package

he's leaving again
and i've been wondering the fatality of soiling and regrowth
seems i've lost count but never faith or burning sweetness
don't know what brought me here, familiarity and ringing echos
is it a chain or written in stone