Nearby on the earth that is ours,
bathing in the dirt and the remains
Eden left behind
Because they were warned we'd forget things worthwhile;
solar fingers playing the fiddle
that teethes on slow, soft melodies,
gnawing out bloody crowns and leaving there the
round, dark abyss of what was once the pupil--
violent reds and blues under eyes,
and plucking a string light--
years away that sways gently, always
having to say something new or
wash the crimson they have splashed
across their hands
what keeps the sinews of the heart
black,
caging it to the ground,
to the skull and limits our
sight of all we will never see or sing
in that depth of the night and
could human strings
of a cello that speaks to you
decipher the last words of a dying star--?
Unknown.