Composure

Dry leaves, found in the autumn
Something is still hanging here,
So the sounds, they ripple,
Like a hummingbird's summer,
A receding sun
Spreads its blood into the leaves,

Birds rattle, cages spilled,
Their songs quietly mesmerize,
Autumn song, change of tune,
Wrong key...

Left here, quiet,
Same wounds heal,
Empty holes fill,
And we gain what we began...

So the change of the seasons lends itself,
To my broken piano,
Strange sounds,
Strange words.

And we begin again.

So the mocking bird weeps,
I follow steps, and I begin again,
Wrong key...

She whispers my name softly,
And I hold her hand firmly,
But in this place we are ghosts.

We're just smoke. 

The End

1 comment about this poem Feed