Drying up,
unlike
the sea-shells
hearing
the break-ups
The dabble
of the texture mark
breaks it.
What's the yell,
mad of hearing
into all sensitivity,
hard barks of hell,
and timber is wooden.
But my red open wound
was the fort of cinders,
no brash of drums soothes
no violins can be rest-ful,
And as for the piano,
the beats of the intricate.
I can't react,
I can't.
I...
can't go back.