Hello there...please rip this one up. It needs it desperately.
S.S. Rose
Winter is a Live Mind
Church-bells ring thoughtlessly:
A menial dirge for a useless poet,
A gray prayer to the slate-eyed winter.
The ache of nothingness
Stuffs my ears and the silence
Hums like mother in the kitchen
Kneading wrinkles and brine into dough.
Barren blackbirds pock
The face of the dawn, flushed like
The cheeks of a waking child.
And like a child I weep indignation
And play the piano too old
To remember its very first song.
I’m feeding my notes to its tune.
Even as hot coffee
Scolds my selfish tongue,
The morning stains the wet snow blue
And the stars fade like teardrops on paper.
The words are ragged wings spotting
A white January sky, scratched out
By the nibs of bare branches.
