Tuesday, March 27, 2007

a song who writes me

we never wrote him a song
a song we conceive when he was broken,
when his pieces were sharp in each shatters

melodies that once silently numbed his maladies
played in our shoulder when he secretly sobs
they're pretty. morbid love like
now he returns intact,
breathing that song we never wrote
it is obscure
of what have cause for all these soreness in our psyche
the dripping crimson like beats
was it the reminiscence of his once a shattered being
or was it the song he's breathing?
it was our song not his
but we may have packed the tunes in his lunch box before he went away
now he returns intact as never ours

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