Autumn symphonies are still
chaotically imitating
the alert rhythm of renegated departures
Whipped from behind
by the strident echoes of freewill
underpraised but overexercised.
And after all…after …
all this confusion is history
I’ll heal you myself on the abrupt shrine
With some sharp, unsaid words
rhyming with “not meant to be”.
Wayward winter words,
For the flesh carved into the bones.
Short-lived summer ornaments,
With their defeated- overstretched tendons
Like some immobilized cords
Apparently devoid of all voice ;
Tormented by sharp, burning nails
As a matter of inner choice.
Bloody Words,
Living on flesh -
Inherited from bone to bone.
Vocal calamities for timpans
defeated by thousand of instants of loss
and only 33 letters
spread on a spring gravestone.

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