Connie Song

The silence of night stumbles
and your words are like ripples
in the ocean,
they are pasted to your lips,
but no one hears their echoes
disintegrating in the wind.

Flip through your random pages,
heavy as broken bones,
the crimson sky sifts the moonlight
and pulls cobwebs from
your redacted…

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Hair flowing in the buttressed wind,
we play with tattered, translucent shadows.
Transposed in light.
Sketched in charcoal.
Painted in watercolor.
Chiseled in clay.
Framed in beauty.

An insouciant sun.
A gentle zephyr cleansing the air.
Wildflowers that leisurely heal the soul.

Sculpted.
Carved.
Some of us etched in stone.
We are rock
until we inhale the scent of poetry
released by thinkers and dreamers
basking in the golden moonlight,
stealing the cold, silent thunder
of a turbulent sky,
each moment framed in the innocence of beauty.

© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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I am only crumbled words
deleted and edited
hungry and sleep deprived
charcoaled and water colored
handpicked like sweet violets that grow
by the waterside.

I am only tainted words
wild and ferocious
like the unlikely life
I’m meant to live
smiling like a child who knows not
the danger that lies ahead
but soon learns to be fierce
in the face of fear.

I am traveled, unraveled words
looking to weave some serenity
into the chronically tousled night.

© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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In their time,
Socrates and Plato
were veritable influencers.

One thing I’ve noticed about the internet
is that it is filled with dime-store philosophers,
movers and shakers,
paupers and poets
who distill their words
like sound bites
until clarity is achieved.

© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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Connie Song

Connie Song

I write until it is time to kiss the moon and tuck in the stars. Medium Top Writer. Poetry. Editor of Purple Ink. Twitter Connie Song 10.