Weather is Changing

There’s friction in a soul, headed for homecoming, woven

in jewelry. Oh to mourn a sandbox, fraught with regrets.

She frets now and again, listening for kinetic voices. I

charm to no avail, cold in this hive, etching murals. Our

genre, an abstract gesture, but often concrete. How to

entertain a silent harp? We listen for essence, decode a note,

every concept a village.

There’s friction in a mind, a torn lament, a youngster’s

anthem. But this is our ballad, found at a gravesite,

staring at a funeral. Feel our duet, a bucket of wails, screeching

through the night. Such sadness confined to mesto, kneeling

at an altar. We fathom color, a mere perception, seeking to

grip time. Every organ breathing life, sorely afflicted,

skiing through dominions.