The pin dropped
And then stopped
Circles made of sound were flattened low
Joining “can’t” to words of “have to know”

And sound rose
Around those
Travesties of tenuous regard
Turning tender tenebrous and charred

The chime brings
Divine wings
Chapters set in books not fully penned
Merging “I mistook” with “duly tend”

But set low
Was threat, so
Tapestries of every spurned offense
Carried far away in burned dispense
And when the pin no longer made a sound
The only thing it left was turbulence


Pass to me the vial full of ink that I may use
The quill of imperfection on a parchment like a fuse
And where the black is bleeding soon the stain is like a bruise
And here I wonder why when given many passages I seem to always know that it’s the darkest that I’ll choose

Burning round the edges so it seems like an antique
This manifested metaphor of loss I seem to seek
As though the destination isn’t nearly quite as bleak
As what I know it’s always been because it’s what it was before but I approach it like a word I shouldn’t speak

Hand to me the scissors that I sharpened yesterday
To cut around the corners of a truth that couldn’t stay
As true as all the consequences lies could not allay
Because I knew I had to sever something underneath the skin before I knew how much of me to cut away

Drying now the ink upon a tapestry of skies
Where still I hold a shovel digging deeply for reprise
While crafting only bigger crowns of pitch and many flies
I wonder just how many know the pain of knowing where they go while slowly mapping their descent into the turbulent intent of their demise


Subtracting even now and bound with optimistic wings
I wonder how long in the shadows I would rot away from many stings
And when the flesh is peeling
Is the blackness it’s revealing
Showing all I ever was and all I ever could have been was just a tangled set of strings?

And swallowing the laughter like the air from a balloon
Inhaling air I tried exhaling into notes that never made a tune
The breaths are growing shallow
Where the years seem ever callow
In the corner of contrition will I fade with all the fanfare of a February moon?

Adjusting, as I do, for all the values never known
I wonder just how many days, how many weeks, I’d be there all alone
And linger undiscovered
Like a lie forever covered
In a world of dimming rhythm from the chimes and dead alarms upon a phone

How many more and many would have set me there aside
As if a momentary memory that always had to be denied
Where now, in a finale,
I remain within a valley
And I wonder just how many days I’ll rest there in the corner till somebody realizes that I died.