Hands

0 Comments

Hands

Two years ago we met,
and played piano with out hands,
and with our hearts.

My music was slow,
but yours had stopped and then, softly,
began once more.

Now i am fast,
and frantic notes said off,
into space and time.

But you are gone,
unable to hear, mind consumed,
by another player 

Poem Comments

(0)

Please login or register

You must be logged in or register a new account in order to
leave comments/feedback and rate this poem.

Login or Register

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

TRS’s Poems (2)

Title Comments
Title Comments
Hands 0
6.40am 0

TRS’s Friends

    No friends in TRS's network.