A fine thread of silk
Wove through the rocks
The deaden debris
That obscured obscenities
Underneath....
It wove, it trembled
And flashed a hesitant twinkle
Twinkle.
There was no one
Nothing
No one to kill
Or get killed
Nothing to bring head to head
Towards mutual annilation
Just him
Just there
And the old piano.
The old piano,
His fingers, bruised,
Bruised their pearl and gold
And snapped, came pain
Notes staggered
And then lined up, like drunkards
Conscience regained
Into an edge
Into a curve
Into a weavework
And ,lo, a river flowed
And the air danced.
The silk crunched lazily
Into his rock-casted depths
Softness, defiant
A maiden braves
Trough a cemetery of
Grotesque memories
Bringing with her the radiant warmth
And fuzzy flowers shook, popped fresh
From her footsteps.
He stopped
But his heart continued
And the forest came to life
With evening lights.
YOU ARE READING
An introvert narrating
PoetryA collection of 5 whimsical poems narrated by an introvert who loves to expose her thoughts and feelings, hopes and beliefs through the poetry medium. To be taken with a cup of good tea. ☕🤗
