His wounds are deepening chasms

That he fills with melody,

With the cheap words he’s bartered

Among perfect strangers

–

The faults in his bones

Are sealed with the heavy strides

Of a hard day’s work,

With endless pails of concrete

–

He feeds the quiet moments

With the turn of a key,

With an airport line, 

The droning roar of a highway

–

It’s a hunger I’ve forsaken

Left to rot low within,

In the quiet I’ve let thrive

And rule over my mind