In the city of ruins

Days are spent half in morning, half in mourning.

Question marks slump through the streets, empty pockets, empty minds, never getting a straight answer about anything.

There’s a heaviness in the chest that makes clouds go slow and traps colors in cages.

Beyond the ruins, a music echoes through the hills, gathering sorrows, ferrying them through the color wheel of pain into a place of pure compassion.

All hearts, all tears, all compasses tremble towards this melody.

Come day’s end, the comforting dusk dines on lingering shadows for tapas before the joyful feast of evening.

Even when tuning, cicada symphonies sound like they’ve been accompanying this exquisite music for lifetimes.