Over My Soul

It’s fitting, these murmurs
They build to a crescendo
A series of starts and stops
This jockeying for position
Fragmentary at best
These squalid arguments
In a room built for sound
Acoustically speaking
Not the anger of years
Threaded into its fabric
That’s only in my mind
Twisted facade tempered thin
These theoretical whimpers
Always craving an attention
That never quite comes
This partial understanding
Somehow muted at best
Covers us in tattered wings
And a halo over my soul.