Kettle Ink

By the lost kettle,
In the sterile room
Was a note
Tacked to the throat
Which lacked steam.

Tripped over by the fable
Marked by the lost stopper,
Enabled by the false,
Procrastination labelled hair splitter.

And in the whirl of mislay
The effortless melodious,
Joke about distraction
And certain truth.

Divided by the apparent,
Apprehensions of story telling,
The old song,
Thatends with whispered dirty
Fingerprints of the word love.

Smeared in the mirror,
Which appeared after the kettle
Last boiled
From a lasting summers day,
Heat after decay.

In memories
Of the wooden tiles,
Where the last child played.