shadow

Of Inner Rhyme

When I was but a metaphor to tell the kitchen's heat, or whistle of the kettle I sang and it was sweet. Now I knit long sentences and weave a swatch of each but they stay hidden in the heart on the sill of speech. Too much has been written, far too much has been said, I listen to soft lyrics Iambics in the head.

of 5 stories this month > Get unlimited stories
You've read 5 of 5 free stories

Only $1 for your first month.

Get unlimited Monitor journalism.