she likes the sound of a piano in fall;
familiar as the taste of rain.
and though each song is printed for her,
and though the notes speak petty words,
she tells her story once, then twice
in reverberated undertones -- listless
with a broken, plastered smile.
too cold for music, she always says
when the snow first trails in supple spots.
she freezes then, with cup in hand --
dead flowers falling from her hair.
and icy is the thought of time
which grasps away her sullied pride
one sweet loss at a time.
spring arrives, and she awakens
Blossoming in sweet syrupy delight
that drips from petal-skin and clings
to hands who covet her, and cherish her.
a bud so fresh, and captured, and treasured;
her tender heart a hummingbird’s might --
when she is loved. when she is loved.
she likes the sound of a piano in fall.
a requiem for the last sip of tea,
or the last time he said she was beautiful.
and she plays her song like a martyr
wondering if he’ll ever hear her
in a world that keeps on spinning
while her tune remains the same.
and it always remains the same,
even if she wants to change.
Spoiler
Another raw poem. I chose to keep the capitalization out on this one simply because of that. I may take this down in the morning.
In any case, rip it apart.
In any case, rip it apart.
