T. M. Isaac


Vapid

As the birds sing, outside there are certain things
I think I rather not think about for now.
As the birdsong strings loose harmony to discord,
fretting the golden, beamlike strings with green,
I try and think I rather think of something else.

As the birds sing, I sense there's something else
that slits the silence but their chirps;
an unseen unheard echo, laced with violet fragrance.

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