Without Rhyme Or Reason

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Playing For Time


It is twelve after midnight
She is playing for time
She plucks at the string driven thing
In perpetual motion
Her fingers collide
She is waiting for someone to sing

The room it is void
Of the presence of he
Who would lift all her notes from the floor
So she counts herself in
Sings the last word of him
And alone
Takes her final

Linda S. Harnett, © 2010

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Playing For Time