it’s romantic

Who thought to

(Or assumed of it’s possibility)

Unhinge, unanchor, remove the hook that has been sunk deep into

The lyrical narrative the colors your tears

The being that hangs and sticks

Words to its stained brick walls

White washed with reason

Often

The museum of sounds

Spells of tongues pressed to the roofs of mouths

Muses lie by those big red leather chairs where myths

Passed to mirrors

Our sole depth of reflection we cannot live without

Where holes tattered, spun wild heaps of knots

For naught

Needles for repair sneak in

Tricking the scene they too mend

In defense of a tightly bound configuration of similarities          

Expressed by symmetrical differences

Behind glassy cases where dust webs gather

Their songs witness and wing to inheritance

That crystalline box held ephemeral movement in suspension

A beat which pounds at the sky

A million steps wide

Ticks out the tide recurring

Confirms why, will

Reminders for ever, never?

The existence of an altered sill

Insistent homes made by the display of decay

Where mockingbirds continue their tradition of wail and woe

Nests of lightened leaves

What was heavy removed by night’s sun thieves