dearest me

the story's getting around
there's no stopping it
a cicada is telling it all night long
in thousands of trees

just when you think it couldn't get any worse
there's more
the candles are in puddles
their wicks dead flies
cold and hard like the last dinner of a dying man

dead dead dead his mantra from the grave
something no one can know
when silence can be found in lint
from the crevices of souls