July 1

I have heard the strains of my heart
played though a deep brass bell,
blown over finger holes, blown apart.

I have risen, time and again, from a hell
composed by my own quill, hole
punched in the page, until my cage

has bars and rests, until it rolls
as an avalanche or a sage
downhill in melody, until I start

to hear it enter a silence, swell
to madness, into a rage
far stronger than begets my age.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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