Poem 79, day 83: Lone

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SJ Writing

Lone

 

Far away somewhere

Winds rage at the tops of hills,

Clouds spit then disperse,

Then clash again in a billow of black.

It is too quiet here.

I try to picture voices,

Searching not for sounds

But the form of lips,

The motion of hands,

As faces busy rooms and laugh,

Laugh, laugh.

Somewhere-

Groups clutter like rabbits,

Raised to live in the company of others

Justifying, somehow,

The dart of eyes plagued

By constant nerves.

A freedom littered with risks.

Girls flutter eyelashes at each other;

Best friends, they say.

And so it was, once.

The hills become streams,

Washing this way.

The angered sky edges closer.

I don’t know how to make it stop.

It’s not so quiet now.

The door creaks open, nudged by a breeze,

I play music and piano keys dance on the silence

And outside, the voices are no longer a memory.

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About J.R. Graham

author, writer, artist and journalist of Western New York. View all posts by J.R. Graham

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