I sent a song to you
in papered roses
tincan cuts and souvenirs
dug up from trips I can't remember.
Touched the scalding liquid to the mold
the contours echoing notes
and rhythms
and rhyme schemes fumbling clumsily
sitting wrongly in their perfect
waxen grooves.

So what's a flame without a wick
but lots of gasoline?

Music for the deaf and broken hearted.

01/23/2004

Posted on 01/23/2004
Copyright © 2024 Trisha De Gracia