the gift of mellow tones
in the low slant of light
for the times when your heart grows sore.
words rarely leave mouths in a straight line,
so we become masters
of interpreting the shapes they make.
with cursed skin and tongue of fire
i run my fingers along every edge
that the light appears to make sharper
and marvel at all the layered meanings;
at everything trying, but failing,
to hide the world's heartbeat.
it's like some kind of velvet morning
during the reign of kings
sitting atop their pile of bones
circled by the shadows of trees in the clearing,
a collage of memories of this house of kindness
to which the majority is oblivious.