My feet touched the water of ivory keys and I’m shallow struck.
It’s the images I can’t take away.
The images of graves engraved and ingrained of my every melody.
For it is sorrow that is ever to be sung to me, by the deafening absence of hope.
Gentle words upon willow limbs yet do make the leaves depart.
What is it you have of me, to make the desperate gray and frail.
Through the great disconnected chorus and crashing symbols that freeze as clouds in the winter.
Yet every storm is but a droplet falling off the tip of a hummingbirds wing.
-M