Oldface

The wuthering flow of turbulence, unbalancing the odds. The chalice discarded, lies bled into emptiness. Deep sorrow will have her speak. The hand on me. Burrowing words cascading the flats. Deep-hurrying through the earthen depths and dug out caves. She says she hears the sad, the deep crevices of voice that draw up behind mistaken walls and hurt mistakes. Cadences of beat that hold steady to the line.  MB