A modern form

No frames of Arts
No articulation of the tongue to fight
low enough to skip
the storm

Sing the silence

A circular dream that does not want to be woken up

Words plugged into their stammer
worries stack up without pause
Like something drilling.

I stare into the fire.
I close my eyes. That makes a dark line mine.

The finger beats the guitar without strings.

An hour to think.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017

Post Comments
Please Login to post a comment

A comment has not been posted for this poem. Encourage a poet by being the first to comment.