A poem about a fickle friend.
Why does your incoherent sound bring a smile? Why does so pure sound this loud whisper from the depth of throat? A tune unsung by the finest musicians; I know you not, yet call you an apparent giggle or gloat. Why can my lips not suppress your tantrums? And why do you leave me be when tears befall? Why does the solemn one long for your hollow tunes- Tunes somehow desirable, unlike the hungry child’s brawl.
Perhaps a friend you may be to the sultry summer night, But to a stranger staring into the flames, clad in ashen white- Ashen as his face, he thinks himself daft To trust his fickle friend- the laugh.
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