in the works

we see the world age with the evidence so widely presented
wrapped in the leaves that fall into mountains at our feet
shape opinions to handmade mosaics to describe such phenomena
we’d figure things out if not for our margins of error

this music box winds in the backs of our throats as the sun sits beside us
ballet on the countertop amuses us all for a little while
the picture shows captivate our idle hands stretched towards distractions
the horrors portrayed reassure us their lives are okay

your fingers are itching to feel such incredible desires
they’ve woven thousands of notes suspended blindly on currents
you hope for the threads to solicit that girl back in dreamland
she may never see them but they’ll trap her in times of distress

miss the boat miss the memo miss the moments remembered so clearly
miss the train miss the point miss the things we intended to say
play telephone with heartstrings we tie to the end of a tin can
afraid to enunciate the words that depict the destination