Your words ricochet
like stolen raindrops pounding on pavement,
like familiar, faded echoes
in the shallow, inexorable distance,
like ashen, crushed leaves
swirling in fluctuating ballet
from the swollen branches of an ancient heirloom oak.
Punctured words reverberate, pulsate, torturing my mind,
bleeding profusely onto an abandoned canvas,
bouncing off the walls,
painting me into an empty, dusty corner, blanched and bleached,
brushed in solitude,
wishing for the kind of mystical moment
only the stars could bring
and the silent moon would envy.
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
