My parents
are musicians.
My senses would spring to life, they'd set my soul ablaze.
Their voices were like honey and warm milk; rich and melodic.
When they sang, even mother nature responded.
They played various instruments like the sarod, sarrusophone, saxello and saz.
'Musical geniuses',
yes,
that's what they were called.
They had an ear for that sort of thing and made art.
They were quite good at it, too. They'd perform on ends for me.
They'd strike me like they'd strike a chord on their piano, with expert precision; (they were fond of the minor chords).
Blood would ooze slowly; lento.
Their wrapped hands around my neck would grasp me firmly, like their favourite cello, and I'd sing for them; a strangled soprano.
They'd kick me like a bass drum and my hollowed soul would vibrate—my hisses of pain; a snare.
My senses would spring to life, they'd set my soul ablaze.
Because my parents
are musicians.
YOU ARE READING
anhedonia (unfinished)
Poetryanhedonia: [noun] the loss of interest and enjoyment in all activities that you once liked; the feeling of not caring anymore. title is in common letters for aesthetic purposes. all rights reserved.
