Literary Yard

Search for meaning

By: Paulo Lorenzo L. Garcia


Falls from your lips
In little quantities
Dripped with a distant hum
Of disconcordant whispers
The staccato of your voice
Winds around my neck
Stifling me
From my desire for rhythm
The words have gone now
Have I nothing left?
Just a blank sheet of paper
Of writing bereft
I only ask that you speak
And trigger my precious release
In this brief catharsis


Leave a Reply

Related Posts