my music box, have they killed you?
-I'm alright. I just can't finish the tune
the way I used to...
and I heard a broken bird chirp.
somewhere, a ceramic flower bloomed;
half, hidden, would panoramas in small
easter eggs spill lavish tears?
well, they did the best they could.
in the china painted grass.
revolving in-place, the castles,
carousels stood
just as pink and blue,
a little less crenellated.
maybe, has it really been years?
a year is an orbiting tune
she almost chimed,
played through.
my stars are few.
I cried.
oh bandaged music
split clear through
how will I hear you now
from a chirring wilderness
bleeding a fractured song
on the hand hooked rug
and its gardens
mary angela douglas 28 august 2014
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