Poem for Franz Lizst

Who didn't like the smell of apples, 

& thought he could hear them weeping in their basket.

The blood cries of small things keep us half awake forever.

We may get our directions wrong when we open our eyes.

The cries were real Franz, but they were coming from under your house.  

 

SK

Franz Lizst

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s