The songs we sang remain in the law
of diminishing returns, their sweet amplitudes
approaching zero which, by dint of halves,
recedes. Does thunder not thin, go madman
over the rise? Does not the lute staccato
pluck the brain and wryly mute? And if we could hear it,
hold it in our throats, would we not die for want
of breath? I would sing those songs but why,
in the cool silent cacophony of time,
when every possible song has been sung,
every possible arpeggio wrung,
when every bowed and lingered tone
fades and resolves itself into cruel lament.
Image: Mila Young on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 