When all the wrong
songs are awkwardly played,
laid down like liquid tracks,
cracks in a sidewalk-sodden Night
rightly forgotten and buried
creeping out from under,
Sky is empty of color--
duller time’d prevail, you’d guess.
Unless you come to understand,
hand to swollen mouth,
doubted no one then, epitaph
half-obscured: He Took His Life.
Might those words be misunderstood?
Should they'd Sing, when they’re all wrong.
Hedgewitch has challenged the Real Toads to write a poem using interlocking rhyme, where where the last syllable or syllables of one line rhyme with the first syllable or syllables of the next.