Photo by Nate C on Unsplash

not a breath left in the air for either
crops or pipe tune
— more like pipe dream

we are only whisps above the layer
once song now ozone
no holes to poke through this one
— floating ghosts of debris

the cat comes inside everyday now
to breathe
and hear the melodies of my pipe and fiddle

soon no air will carry them

MA in Classics: Latin poetry as well as myth and folklore. Writes mostly poetry and book reviews. Part-time Latin tutor: https://latinbyabby.wordpress.com/

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