Legend
To live in a comma,
caesura of consciousness
washed by an afternoon
of close listening.
Who says existence
when towns are buried
and history ties
us to minerals stored
in a hermit's cell.
You are chained to remorse,
grow perilous feathers
as day lifts its cover
and the dangers of
nightfall are buffed bright.
The night is a piano,
darkness its minor keys.
Ghosts witness
the retreat of the song.
To live in a comma,
caesura of consciousness
washed by an afternoon
of close listening.
Who says existence
when towns are buried
and history ties
us to minerals stored
in a hermit's cell.
You are chained to remorse,
grow perilous feathers
as day lifts its cover
and the dangers of
nightfall are buffed bright.
The night is a piano,
darkness its minor keys.
Ghosts witness
the retreat of the song.