Plucking at my heart strings
The silent player plays.
A solitary tune comprised
Of sorrow and loneliness
All laced with confusion.
The song cannot
Be understood or comprehended.
It is only felt deep down,
As an earthquake and a tempest.
Ripping at the soul itself,
Unveiling misgivings and regret.1
Head bowed, hair hanging limply,
The silent player wallows.
String after string is thrummed,
Each resonates deeply.
He just sits and plucks away,
Each despondent note is a memory
From a life lived long ago.
Left to languish in misery,
He slowly,
Surely,
Goes.2
The only company that
The silent player ever gets
Are solitary tears
That hardly go unmet.
Each is seen and acknowledged
Before dropping away forever.
Gone like everything else he’s known,
The silent player’s sorrow swells.
He plucks harder and more desperately
Till his fingers start to bleed and
The symphony dully roars.
Author notes
I don't care if it isn't good, I just needed to get it out. There's a lot of stuff backed up inside of me right now
Comments
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Nice choice of words. You vocabulary was amazing as was your poem. Well done, nice emotion and imagery - especially towards the end.
-Chantale
beginning: 5, language: 5, plot: 5, ending: 5, dialog: 5, characters: 5.
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