Anna gargles up a reluctant tune
every thursday. But always too soon
the others recieve it. Maybe a stave
of ''ok''?? is her vice. Her single crave.
Yet to Anna her one vocal routine
is not to annoy. Letters of extreme
sufferig always prevail with surprise
to her. Then single forced laughs hide her eyes.
Nevertheless, what if you were the ones
deafened by regular racket. The suns
diluted to rock. You would tooclasp your
ears to peace. Spill a silence on the chore.
Anna too spilled silence about one day.
It poured out frm her wrists and down her grey
fading skin. No one heard this final song
or warning ballad. Thursday's notes are gone.