(This poem is about the snow we got back in November and a song I was listening to all day.)
I have imagined this place,
Though I know it is real.
Empty, lifeless, cold.
The snow has settled on the
Ground, cascading all visible paths
And obscuring anything beyond.
I am there, hands wrapped around
The sink, eyes darkened by a tired,
Wasteful day. I am there, and
I hear the faint sound of music
Coming in. Soft, breathless piano.
In that moment, I wished I could
Play, but I know my limits.
Instead, I listen, and the
Street lights start coming on.
The snow is yellowed by colored
Light, and I am just staring.
Imagining. This time, I know
That this is the realest I'll ever be.
Empty, lifeless, cold.
Me.
YOU ARE READING
The Beginning To The End
PuisiI've never been a poet, that much is certain, but I can tell you that it does get written. A lot. These are the collections of my poetry I've written, and some of them hit hard for me.
