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I Killed the Rock
The rock was sitting coldly in my hand;
it sang a song - a ballad. I could swoon.
It sang like the lead singer of a band,
if Freddie Mercury howled at the moon.
It came with me to the plastic tower
orange as the sunset. We drank the milk,
sour and chalky. We waited, hour
by hour, for day, a sunrise like silk.
The months have passed by. I look at my rock,
but it no longer sings - there's no crooning.
It just sits by my bed, dead as a block -
its soul has gone. No more time for swooning.
Alas! The sky was blue, now it is gray.
I killed the rock; I regret it today.
