foundry iron
makes tanks and bullets
like a jaded monk thinks of his youth
portions his day for prayer, for atonement
sounds bounce through us like a butter knife
and all i hear is his sadness
some moment of tandem living
the veil of happiness
slips off
in a life less acoustic
muffled sounds of now gone patterns
wake us each night with an electric buzz
strings from that same foundry
play me again
softly again
adt
cincinnati, oh
Copyright 2009 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi
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