//The Last song//
The words are getting thinlike me, mounting
time and ugliness
and drying up
like me, gliding
time and grayness
and hollowing
like me, in a whirlpool
of time and tiredness.
How can I sing
for the bird
who flew off an hour ago
who crossed the fence
that distinguishes
me from my neighbour!
My words are under arrest
handcuffed with a freedom
that can not cross
the barb or a bark.
the words don’t have muscle
those outwit the force.
It jingles sometimes
to make me inhale,
or exhale puberty
or walled within a
asphyxiated memory
Do I still carry a song
still to burden my family?
Or justify an ode to the
My white inked look!
I know the bird never knew
I barbed my fence
to stop her fly
forested words
and gathered around
the sounds
to stone at her.
How can I fetch it back
when all are exhausted?
A song??
Without a bird?
Impossible
That could be heard no more.
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