Poem 79, day 83: Lone

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SJ Writing



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.


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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