Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Blue: A Poem


She'd be nothing but a pale page
without the blue songs.
The notes pulse through trembling veins,
running to overflow from bright eyes.
These liquid streaks are not skin, but skeleton,
supporting the hands lifted high.
Found in the silence and the song,
she lives and she dies with abandon.
To come too close is to be drenched in words
bleeding from her eyes, a stain
too deep to erase.
Watch her sing from a distance,
her cold eyes open,
a pale flame behind glass.

1 comment:

Liz said...

this might sound stupid and i'm okay with sounding stupid but i connect really well with this poem... like i KNOW the "her" from the poem. i do believe that is the mark of some amazing work:)