Lost 
 
Where you are, can you hear the same, That old voice that I hear, that song From some dark (where sorrow never disappoints) That polishes the silence ‘til it moans and surrenders, Rubs joints and joists and beams and bones until they hum, without consent, A mumbling mad anonymous lament? It swims impossibly up Through substances more real than water or air or blood or stone or regret, It spreads its wings and rises up, a seabird's mourning song, Rises up through me in the endless voids and wildernesses Of your absence. The Old Dog Web Log
Monday, February 1, 2010