My morning song

My morning song
Crying
In echo
Sounding so sweet
Up front and in person
Deliberating in the afternoon
To wither or sour or become more complex
By dusk
The shades drawn
And delivering a solemn blow
To the solar plexus
Now a wobbling staff of forgiveness
A reverberating cicada unsheathed
Sounding ominous
Loose of morals
Not so much dangerous as arcane
Primordial
Obtrusive to modern inclusion
Permanent black
--
5.8.13
Evening Dispatch