Old rags on their way to bookshelves,
Bored fingers who remember old songs like ballet positions
Until...
Percussive claws on ivory shelves, clutching old bones
While notes slip away, dripping like shadow mice
Away from eyes like sulfur coastal mornings.
Old patience.
Old songs.
Cross-posted with The Sunday Muse for Muse #7. This feels really rough to me...there are perhaps a few missing stanzas? I don't know. Perhaps this will reappear later. :) Thanks for reading!
-- Chrissa
Some amazing imagery in this C!...if it does re-appear here I look forward to what you do, but I love it just the way it is.
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