One

It might not make sense to you; it might not really make sense to me./ But if it makes sense to anyone, then it's okay.

Piano's graceless
faceless
tasteless notes
taint the air
like fire and smog
trapped in a dark room.

Ghostly fingers
lingers
winters cold
eats the breath
of a shadowy light
as leaves crisp and cry.

Time weeps
sleeps
heaps and heaps
for existence is hard
and hollow planes
for the inhuman.

A hall's slight
tight
white wall of 
incomprehensible
un-fall-able
loneliness.

And keening
sheening
meanings no longer mean
as readings no longer read
but passive ways
believe.

The End

1 comment about this poem Feed