11 February 2015


Slowly, softly,
Love died
Its ending hushed
Resembling notes
Of a mournful sonata,
The bleaker notes of lament

Hollow echoes in an angry landscape
Is spent love
Useful as a pocketful of broken violin strings:
This one snapped during practice.
This one.
I was.
I can’t remember why this string died.

I hold on to broken things.
In its hiding place
My white embroidered cardigan,
A gift once best loved
Now out of vogue
The pockets filled with broken violin strings.

Hours evolving into
Uncounted years
Seasons crawling or flying
The act of living

I wait for the courage to sever
Each remaining string.