How does your sorry sing? In subtle silvery slivers,
one hit wonders for a sanitized truth?
Or maybe you make of it some use, being bold but barely old enough to matter.
What does your sorry say? Do demons dance, denying succor, marred minds made whole? You've probably been told, but that's not sorry, it's soul, and hardly old enough to crawl.
Where does your sorry live? In between words and under pressured skies, otherworldly language device. It's already well known, but that's not sorry, its hope, and too dense to float.
Brief in life, the taking, needs nearly never met, and even then blanched and bled. Searching out sorry to apologize and ease this soul, the shaking. It's not sorry, its cold and old enough to know.