worn out coiners,
pages of tomes
pricked by
needle-eyed
pedants,
are spent.
Out of breath
and on the run
from death's
stifled orison.
We,
torn out corners,
sing to somber shades
of the clamorous city
Siren cries of home
forged in harmony.
A part of my childhood has died. Happily I have
buried it in my heart.