Wednesday, February 15, 2017

The Pianist




The Pianist


We buried him yesterday.
Night finds little, if any consolation
in embellished stars,
and although I’ve stopped crying,
I still sigh.

I listen to music
when there's nothing
but the luscious scent
of emptiness.

You were my fallen flower,
my one thousand gifts
of heavenly abundance,
my banquet of endings.

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