How many tunes may be played upon my heartstrings
before the melody is dull and the resonance
gone forever?

A music box, heart shaped, stands aside in opened chord.

Lingers now, as once before, the past of echoes in future’s resemblance
lay waiting now to be dusted off and carried away
mind over matter, matters un-minded

Again the dust settles upon the broken thud of the still-life heart.

Dreamed, a silhouette, of a nightmarish ballet danced
upon broken legs guided by crippled movement
as life, less than more, deigns to be known

Lay cold hands upon my chilled heart, at least the touch shall be felt.




-J.G. Smith (o2/04/06)