Last March

a short poem about the inability to move on and what it might sound like

Last March

The violins have stopped rehearsing
Their notes no longer sing
The keys have grown this silent rage
They tell me this is Spring

I just can’t trust my hearing
The bells have all gone shrill
I taste another from my stash of waste
My bottle, not my pill

I hear the voices singing out
For whom they sing I wonder
The sounds too clearly clipped and sure
Sopranos never blunder?

Why do I sit and watch this act
This vile parade, this ruse
It seems I’m stewed and frozen here
So sad and out of tune