The song lingers,
On tips of tongues.
Dripping forlorn pools,
It clouds thought strands;
Pulling fibers mercilessly.
Shouted by all who breathe,
Or hummed if preferred.
In all forms, it spins,
Knocking out the senses.
A lived-in substance,
Stuck like coursing blood.
No restless vengeance.
At best, we give in.