Nothing sings:
the dead of winter is not a pretty phrase.
Sleepless exhaustion reigns.
This long line of girls striving
to look younger than they've been for years
drugging themselves
they got to get through
the job
night
minute
man.
All married,
insufficient.
Secrets steeped in alcohol,
children uneducated as lovers.
But spring comes to both sides of asylum.
When I hear a song I like
It's rare I am not the originator.
When I look at your face everything sings.
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