The earth cracks in the desolation
of smoke that rises from the ashes
in search of lost salvation.
I drink bronze wine
and listen to the gnash
of a lone bird that sits on dried up vines.
My violin is broken—
the strings are twisted like nerves
that scream a word once spoken.
As walls close on a moonless night,
I wonder how long my memory can serve
when the dead will still indict.
Year:
2013
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