They are frayed and weather worn
but we cannot die without them
so we pull them over our bodies
and drink them down to our bellies
to keep them close
We have come undone in the most
poetic and epic of ways
and so we wait for our violins to play
dramatically, just for us
Again and again
we clog and clean out our wombs
and we dig the flesh from our bones
Bloated with our tendencies and disorders
we keep waiting for our violins to play
dramatically, just for us
to make our struggles known
We cannot choke on our frustrations
without emphasis
so we will go on waiting for the music
weeping beneath our reasons
until it comes
Author notes
Slow, steady, justified suicide of the soul. Mmm mmm good.
Comments
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Morbid yet uplifting at the same time
Very nice abbi "doth the violin play for me, i know not, for i cannot hear it over the fat woman singing" another one of your cleverpoems. i like it
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