“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Monday, September 25, 2017
What?
Hears drums and crosses lines.
Mumbles to self, too loud.
Listens for source, finds growling inside.
Forehead furrowed after thinking.
A grey hair, an old mole, an ache, a hunger,
a new sparkle, an old ennui, or lack of
commitment-
Where screaming will come in
side, when it is safe, and if the space
is able to absorb it All.
It All sounds tempting.
Obsessions are relentless.
Remember how images dissipate
when held under sound waves?
Photo by CEphoto, Uwe Aranas via Wikimedia Commons.
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