The violin speaks long, sweet:
then pivots on a whim,
nails my spine to a long
empty hall inhabited by
echoes of wooden benches.
Youth cannot stay
but its sounds
still invade
every empty place.
The past glistens on
a powdered cheek
drips into
cracks in floors
and lies there
softly until it resounds
like the thunder of something
happening in another room.
Speak in whispers
or the past will thunder.
© Copyright 2019 Douglas J Hill. All rights reserved.
Comments
Hauntingly well penned.
Amazing and beautiful! Wow!!!
Hauntingly atmospheric and beautifully written.
Thank you for sharing this! I loved it and read it multiple times.
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