The Rhythm of a Cello

And I started with staring into the orange sun
While the day waltzed between us like blue and yellow.
Mad men whistle a madder tune, sooner reaches the gun.

Papers fill writers with words, and fun.
Smooth creases form slowly, to the rhythm of the cello.
And I started with staring into the orange sun

Hate shoots hate, but who shoots a nun?
Breed and breathe after your right hand plays a world more mellow
Mad men whistle a madder tune, sooner reaches the gun.

Stop. No one was prepared for these words out of control, spun.
Like the very gun, a retelling of that great Othello.
And I started with staring into the orange sun

Olive branches grow out of his eyes, but everything is still undone.
Reaching vines, attempting to tie up the harm, oh.
Mad men whistle a madder tune, sooner reaches the gun.

Ink filled his ears, still, stiller, an unmoving sum.
Then it spilled down his face pooling in all of the necessary hallows.
And I started with staring into the orange sun
Mad men whistle a madder tune, sooner reaches the gun.