September 9, 2011
Amid the soothing stories
Of women who sing
I realize
I look like anyone else
And I am happy, like a
Child, because maybe
Tomorrow has come at last
Between the fires, wars,
Insistent rain and macabre earthquakes,
There lies a consolation, cello-like in it's
Everlasting comfort
When you start with a continuation
And a contradiction in one breath
No answer, yet, the right key but
The wrong box, maybe, such a
Weak sound--
Of too many broken pieces in one
And the voices and memories
Are the only thing to mend them.

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