the platitudes of willful resemblance

pencil sketched broken winter twigs

haunted notes of an old love song

last of the winter stars.

I grinned sheepishly as the memory 

of you echoed through – 

 

death

sends its certain reverberations 

through e’ry heart,

and this certainly through mine.

but I’ve nothing to sing,

 

and

nothing to hear.

there’re too many people –

and their murmuration end in 

piercing tinnitus 

because of nonsense

and 

chronic pain.