Ghostsong

A Year of Sonnets — 048/365

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

Now music will diminish, even light
may crumble in the gasp of lonely stars
and entropy may always be a fright
indwelling us, the heart of who we are,
more honest than the prose upon our skin
or verses chanted to the lonely dark
shall echo out, a tiny meadowlark
now nesting in the hollow of our guts.
Oh, she will sing, dear, perched upon a rib
and though she is a darling, music cuts
yes, even as it rocks the baby’s crib.

So strike a song! Though nothing may endure
the memory might echo, lonely, pure.