She was a sketch thrown onto a canvas,
Ripped in half
Spilling charcoal off her edges,
Devoid of any colour.
But black.
Blacks fading into greys as they trail off her,
Further into the canvas.
Blacks melting into each other,
So deep they seem blue.
Each and every one of her lines marred by the songs of somebody else,
Verses that each hid a melody unseen to the eye,
Carrying the weight of another's identity.
Torn edges fluttering under the touch of your finger tips,
Smudging them with some of her burden,
All in shades of grey.
Almost alive.
Mostly just an incomplete sketch devoid of any colour.
But black.
YOU ARE READING
Mostly
PoetryA murmur of the land upon which the marching band stomped on in its haunting glory . stories buried for nights that go unnoticed. mostly unnoticed.
