Who it is we all know for all us poets have lost one such.
All the chirp and chatter, aye.
Endless questions that chip away at our heartwood.
Where to take our hollow core is always the dilemma we who are left bereft face.
They’ll speak of us, if not quite for us.
Loyalties and lines of succession, pasts haunting futures in a shadowed present: love’s interplay.
They do not yet know, except inside, and have not yet blossomed into the bright regrets of adults.
A blossoming of women in floral print dresses so “helpful” and vulturous.
Poppies, my sweet; Margaret Hamilton knew about Lethe.
Melodic dirges spritely and doleful, mournful moan-songs.
Music of the sparrows’ spheres are mathematics of the heart and soul.
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Inspired by “Questions” by Krysia Jopek
11:27 2 July 2013
