My fingers traipse across the black, white keys.
The golden sounds are dreams that I can hear.
I long for quiet moments such as these
when sweet melodies melt into my ear.
The chime of bells are gliding through the air
and symphonies are seeping through my veins.
They sway and twirl and whisper like a prayer.
I take a breath and play through what remains.
But then the music thunders loud and shrill.
The sharps are choppy like the restless waves
of storm gray waters drowning out the still.
The notes then rise and fall back to their graves.
The music stutters and stops short the song.
I pick a new tune that moves right along.
(an ekphrastic poem based on the painting Nighthawks by Edward Hopper)
doused in gold,
like moths to flame,
seek warmth from the cold.
Darkness leers, but harsh light shields
these lonely creatures from their feelings untold.
a waiter old,
and three weary visitors
are portrayed. The scene unfolds.
Most eat under the sunlight, unlike
these nighthawks who flocked from their households.
hearts like blindfolds;
nighthawks’ hearts aren’t exceptions.
The woman red and bold,
the man in shadows, and another
man with a cigarette in his hold
They are controlled
and defined by solitude.
They don’t belong. No mold
fits them. They only have a
diner, each other, and lonesome souls unconsoled.
— The End —