23 year old writer/poet from Montreal, Canada.
Eulogy to a player piano played only by mice. Strings twang untuned as little ones scurry from A to B flat. The dusky sonata
By Jamie Wilkinson7 years ago in Poets
Her blouse is livid with loose ends of string intertwined like feasting garden-worms. That pompous scuffed tortoise-shell button
The withered planes of aged papyrus read like shallow pools of cryptic braille. Alleviating the curiosity of tentative fingertips,
That dry whisper of landscape, where parched lips of crackling dirt purse upward to taste the tender kiss of water drops.
Walls coloured custard with faded silk stripes, edges eaten into threads by starving insects. Crying from dank, rot-punctured ceilings,
The colossal pillars of chipped marble Stand together like jilted lovers, Sharing secrets in stiffness, And crumbling.
Is there softness in the slowest decay of blurring lamentations past, or the gentle end of a frayed photograph from one too many hasty hands.
Hollowed stumps rise from dirt The empty wood-tombs of giants Blackened bark pieces dangling Like spongy feeble ornaments
Sweet autumnal sap, sticking To maple walls of an hourglass, Unwilling, lingering, clinging, To the curvature of cracked bark.
Tea bags still soaking in chipped porcelain, pecking at cracks, and caressing stains that linger in molars. Finely ground specs,
A hardened shell of sticky fur, the likes of botched taxidermy writing on the winter roadside in shades of brown and red.