Whither… ?

November 12, 2016

A guitar sits in a lost kitty’s corner

Without a single string strung
Years before they’d either been broken,

Tuned too tight by an eager will,

Or bitterly removed and flung
But found and wound

Into rust prone rings

(Like dim and dormant

Dust known things)

Rhyming poetic promises

That couldn’t keep?

Wouldn’t be kept

Amongst simpler stories

Sorrow swept

Into a cornered, 

Shrewd, and suspect silence

A question

Spun of prayer-seen stars

For a prophet’s plaited God

Like ours…

Like yours 

Like mine

Like ours.


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