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"By singing wordlessly, you’re not obliging
the audience to think about a certain thing—
it can be about anything."
                                            —Tigran Hamasyan 

This morning, the usual
warbling of the rooster
does not echo through
the window; instead
he dreams of wine
and music: an oak barrel
stage made of Sitka Spruce,
and the burnt whisper
of a woman in a cherry dress,
resonating the feathers on his chest.
He has heard the quartet
before a distant memory,
aching in his restless Cycle.
I want you to have A heart
attack, she whispers
Into the mic -- shot
like a gong on the height
of the world, where spring
water would cure mortality;
his blood like wine
pours at the end before
he can ever hope
to open his eyes again.

By Isiah Fletcher , 18 Aug, 2020

tags
poetry

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