voiced

i hear your voice

that off key humming

that soft yet deep toned

murmuring

that distinct chuckle

that sweet nothing filled echo

 

i strain to hear you

to make it real

to place it in my time

but just as always

you go silent

sensing you have

come too near

what keeps you away?

 
 

you know i await

that fated chance

not promised

no, not at all

but dreamt of

and longed for

but thought of

and prayed for

and kept

within my

wounded self

to give the

emptiness

some company

evaporate

“The storm doth walk the seashore humming a mournful tune”
– Emily Dickinson

darkening shadow
sits high on misting pane

his beckoning words thrumming on taut string
the tapping syllables within the tin can tring

lazy fingers soothe
a bitten round
on silken shoulder
its swell still ripe
from being plundered

among
pitted sands,
petals, dewy-sliced
lay pierced remains
of the thieving drunk

shelter hides
the sopping invitation
muting the call of lowing reverberations

eying bait dry asunder
lightning flailed
still unheeded thunder

he will await
to finally reach up and
evaporate