like the grief in pain.
It floats in the ribs.
It expands
In dread
Like a red violin
With a broken string.
She scrambles away on the air,
Exhaling notes already composed by another.
It is music gone mad.
It is anguish and ecstasy
Sharing the page
With misfortune.
She has climbed as high as she can.
Happiness brushes against her,
It is her acquittal,
Transitory;
Composer of this instant,
Her masterpiece.
© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
Read all the Violent Verses
