№ 757. The Bygones

 

№ 526. Boston

Pinterest

 

The keys taste icy, 

salty in this blue morning.

Wrecked pianos litter our shores.

 

Uprights gasp the foams

as their last songs drown in the tides.

Rusted strings claw sand.

Sunrise lights the sea.

As bards sing of running 

away to Boston.