Q u i d a m

Lies of freedom (i)

Whisperer down in the valley of forlorn,

11:11, make a wish or infusion of assured certain times

A candle lit up the fire, bleak glow form tides;

Street lamp sputters,

mutters a lie, midnight of fortune only blinks twice.

"Play it once; the highs and lows," and she does

the keynotes tremble under her fingertip,

a mellow pines of scented steel.

"It's old but timbre well. . ." He held a sigh before breaks

"And ol' is gold for mellow with mid lows," she says.

Lamp posts blink red, with the dark and round

rich tunes, the wind blows up—

like a vintage wine, dogs start to bark

to muffle the cries of another death,

Oh, 11:11! Make another wish.

"You do not my friend, what you hold it in your hands,"

Salt water perks in the glossy eyes —

Dust of newspaper cranked in the morning.

━━━━━━━━━━

Part two is coming soon!