Vokal

The last chord from a red lane,
grinded away by tooth
and mortal air.
Two of us
granted no stay of death;
end words
as parched as desert stones.

Hear no more of me
and this clicking tongue.
Only in hearts and memories
are stages set
for a round of heavy sighs and prophecy.

Press "Play"
when lips will play no more,
and eventhough this soul has gone to roost
the vocals survive in mechanics.
No true end of words afterall,
no end no more in a televised century...

©Steven Francis poems 2012