Wordless
High notes rise–
staccato.
There’s a hum
in the head.
Fingers tap
touching
each chance
each day.
Evenings don’t end
in song
or story.
Silent shoulders
mourn.
Blank pages
flap
flying as kites.
High notes rise–
staccato.
There’s a hum
in the head.
Fingers tap
touching
each chance
each day.
Evenings don’t end
in song
or story.
Silent shoulders
mourn.
Blank pages
flap
flying as kites.