The morning song this day
was dry like the withered branch
of the speaking tree
just outside my window.
It maybe the summer heat,
or is it this headache?
That turned your voice
coarse n bitter, between stale breath.
Maybe it's the curse of the lost
Spanish Hollow I played with ease,
my fingers strumming in blind passion,
knowing its every sigh...
The music flows still,
a meaningless, lustful tide;
the senseless tunes composed
by the devil at large, the fallen one.