Listen to their song.
The words strung
by the waning hearts and tattered souls.
Lyrics filled with fading hope,
despair and desperation.
Verses cried for peace,
for mercy and attention.
Desolation hung in their hearts' chimes;
aching for someone to step inside,
yearning for a hand to relieve their chests
of such depressing sounds.
Listen to their song.
The melody composed
by their silent wails; stroked to life
in the depths of melancholic keys.
Stop and strain your ears a little more.
Can you not hear
their beautiful, haunting tune
played prodigiously by the winds' roars?
Listen to their song.
This, the broken,
corrupted, neglected, and the troubled—
with earnest hearts—
implore to you, who saw no fear;
to you, with the loudest cheer;
to you, with a glance to spare,
and to you, who once had cared:
Listen to our song.
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YOU ARE READING
Spilled Ink
PoetryA piece of soul in ink, and unto the paper it spilled. A collection of thoughts that rhyme from a wandering mind.
