its a quiet scene in the suburban fields
where the sheep are resting
the light flickers from a streetlamp
and the music comes
as a buzz of the filament;

echoes from the silence
come up and erupt;
signs from heaven are
intercepted by the underworld.

words come of disaster
maligned and injured,
for the hope of the writer.

as a diminishing voice shouts locked away,
there is no gasp to share in his tired lungs.

this is a tap-tap-tap drumbeat, streetlight buzz as the fireflies light the grave.

06/28/2004

Posted on 06/28/2004
Copyright © 2024 Andrew S Adams