poets may gather
at graves
whence sprung

rhythms
of baroque
tonality

testing patterns
that flow
then break
like waves
of emotion

scoured
by eons
of negatively
charged dust

it goes

My Nightingale lay naked as
Her tongue fell out of tune
Bereft of less simplicity
She’d foraged from the moon
That shone its tainted cherry light
With nothing more to show
But invitations to my bird
For silence down below