Weakened, snapped, you pull a trigger,
tying past into present and future
with a messy red bow.
You are the crack of opalescent shell at dusk,
witness to fledgling’s first breath,
oracle of its future lift of spirit wing
pushing at the apex of an empty sky
You are a certain strum of guitar
reverberating through performances pure,
plucking surfaces of symphonies
I no longer quite recall.
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.06 seconds at 11:01am on Nov 25, 2024 via server WEBX1.