HER SONG TOUCH

Her lipstick is the blood red

of a days end. Draining slender fingers

claw for heaven, stirring muddy

the floor under the pearly gates.

The jazz she breathed rattled high

around the edges of her cup of years;

the roulette wheel fails to let her

secure a winning.

The wrong of her makes the pain

of others right. The great she owns

lifts up the down from her song;

her loss heals everyone.

Songs are tears looking for faces.

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