Time to Compose
The shape of sound fits the golden sky
Nothing but a ripple of light
To those who can not see
Blundering to the ground
A rain filtered through clouds
Dripping with a promise of cacophony
But red slashes the gold
Black rips the ripple of the chord
Throttling vibrations to silvered echos
Escaping as a ghost butterfly
A paleness that explodes
Sending a tsunami of self to the cosmos
It is time to compose
Posted: Thursday, January 16th, 2014 @ 6:49 pm
Categories: Poems.
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