After the Old Man’s Song

Every midnight, the droning
of the old man’s tone,
the piano’s moan as fingers pile
upon each key the construction
of soul. His song invades the air,
creaks along the earth, suffering
sounds upon the skin of stars.

Now, the strings sleep,
no longer haunted by what lives
in the press of fading hands,
and night is only itself,
no longer the throat
for a foolish voice.
We can finally find sleep.

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3 thoughts on “After the Old Man’s Song

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