When a tale,
A fabled voice,
Is suddenly silent
And all that is left,
Is our recounting
Of those once moments,
Our narratives overlapped in background noise.
We still detect
That now unspoken,
The plot hole.
Someone's book has ended,
And yet,
Our words keep on speaking,
Although the script feels askew.
YOU ARE READING
Scribblings
PuisiWords arranged in a funny order. Poems about my view of reality and how my inner fantasy world colours it with strange tinges. I love discussions about concepts and ideas so please feel free to comment. © 2018 Brian Lynch
