The eternal strings play
as crows feathers
fall like tears.
But alas,
these will never dry
seeding the clouds with grey.
Every melody is a line of life,
now serenading stone words.
A sunset caressing
chiselled days, years,
then nothingness.
Upon a wooden box,
a crow sings tears
that form on the strings of
yesterdays now played.
The future is barren of you.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
The eternal strings play
as crows feathers
fall like tears.
But alas,
these will never dry
seeding the clouds with grey.
Every melody is a line of life,
now serenading stone words.
A sunset caressing
chiselled days, years,
then nothingness.
Upon a wooden box,
a crow sings tears
that form on the strings of
yesterdays now played.
The future is barren of you.
