356

Slaving over strings with all the oils
easing the way, fighting off sleepy time
as the rain crashes the glass; water boils
and the boy remembers sounds of his prime.

This was before the fall, the deception
of blues and the limits of thickened skin
before a second’s death could quell action
in the young winter’s white and muffled din.

But the music may be a portal back
to times before the sleep set in and killed
the blood that lubricated all the black
white and pearl that the wood and steel revealed.

To end the story would be like a rose
trod on after being graced by the hose.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Urban Sonnets and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s