“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
To Whom this Invocation May Concern
How am little i,
oh wisest one,
to beg, plead, ask of you-
To whom do I direct this to?
i've been patiently holding it in,
awaiting your silent reply,
yet I regret to inform,
i'm grasping
at air-
missing you there,
perhaps...
-will come when you're ready,
pending by suspension,
willing my belief.
Just know,
as anticipating listener,
my tongue is in your hands.
i banish my own banter,
drowning your voice,
gurgling from my inner ear.
No More! Silence!
i remain fixed, devoted
and listening to every
syllable you may say,
chomping at all your
crisp wafer clues
not knowing how to
thank you.
when you come and go
abruptly as you
please
leaving me hanging
dead before the echoes back
because I never caught your name...
Composed 11/6/15
Image of painting by Sophie Gengembre Anderson, Portrait of a Young Girl [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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