Epiphanies stood out of the crowd

Wet with sweat, and

Panting loudly-their breaths mere whispers

Of the conversations turned to a close

Years and years ago

Playing an old song on a piano, with half the keys missing

The tune went on, hollow like the wooden case that is

Full of the missing piano keys

Epiphanies stood out the crowd

Wet with sweat-their hanging cloaks a remainder of the

Coloured ashes from the cemetery

Miles away

Climbing a staircase, that gave way to a bridge every second

Crisscrossed into weaving melodies, carelessly strewn across

The old song-played with an ancient piano

We were the past of the house of the black and white butterflies

With no space left for an empty wooden case filled to the brim

With empty keys, click-clack

We were the past of our memories, disturbed into our sleep

Quiet into hardening stones etched brilliantly through flooding aches

Disturbed into our sleep-with flashes in the morning, dust in the evenings

And jagged crystals in the middle of the nights full of a sleep that made its way slowly

With an old song-The song of the night