Staring at my frail mourning hands,
Motoring them to touch and feel, you stand still.
Breaking the silence with my breath, my body presses forward;
the tension is released.
I hear their ink, scrawling frantically onto a manuscript,
Vulgar murmurs, and deaf misjudgment;
oh, how could one resume?
My eloquent speech is tied,
Unable to entertain such a feeling of resent.
The profound lament leaks through your speech, I hear a progression of pain, an unbearable pain.
My hands now obtain diluted ink, livid and agitated as they can be; I compose with arrhythmia.
A piece is composed, yet ink still runs;
Tainting my skin, soaking itself in a cesspool of sins.
If I am frequent to fail you, shall we come to a resolution,
A resolution of silence and awe;
But if our hands meet; the ink is discrete and the tension reaches its peak.
YOU ARE READING
collection of poems and short stories
PoetryPoems and short stories that I've written throughout my study of literature and writing. Hopefully you'll be able to see the progression of my craft. References to literature and artist are spread throughout the prose.
