The Anatomy of a Whisper
It is not merely blood that moves,
A rushing, quiet river in the wrist,
But time’s own cadence, rhythmic, absolute,
A sudden, startled joy that I have missed.
I trace the map of veins, a slender road,
And watch the crimson tide begin to rush,
A silent drummer in the quiet night,
Bringing the noisy world to a solemn hush.
So let us take a moment, soft and slow,
To feel the thrumming, the vital, living tide,
And romanticize the pulse, a sacred drum,
That carries all the love I hold inside.
It is the only dance that does not end,
A fragile, perfect tempo we are given—
A heartbeat’s song, a soft, insistent whisper,
That turns this mortal flesh into a heaven.
So lay your hand upon the quiet vein,
And know that we are here, entirely free,
This steady, thrumming life is but a pledge—
A song of you, and a song of me.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
