Like the Piano Keys

 

Aging in the afternoon.

Shuttered in

with idling air

barred by a thin usual.

 

The past hissed

steamed, broken;

the sky retching clouds.

Years, an anchor of

generations.

 

We are accustomed,

Invisible.

A hand out

floating in time.

 

How awkward:

Stale old beds.

Our worries like watches.

 

The inherited cup fills

certain to drop.

Shadow heavy as lead.

We shall miss the mark.

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