Can you hear the people sing?
Not with vocal chords, or silver tongues,
the songs of silent change.
The broken promises
(that crack ribs and pelvic bones)
provide percussion.
The strings;
your fingers tangles in my hair,
I feel the sliding scales.
Don't stop playing.
There's a rhythm in your dying cells
(regenerate per seven years,
someday there'll be a you I haven't touched yet).
There is metal in my flesh,
my song is sung titanium
and ink,
and I hope I am imagining
that we sing at the same pitch.
Don't change.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 4:20 PM UTC
Can you hear the people sing?
Not with vocal chords, or silver tongues,
the songs of silent change.
The broken promises
(that crack ribs and pelvic bones)
provide percussion.
The strings;
your fingers tangles in my hair,
I feel the sliding scales.
Don't stop playing.
There's a rhythm in your dying cells
(regenerate per seven years,
someday there'll be a you I haven't touched yet).
There is metal in my flesh,
my song is sung titanium
and ink,
and I hope I am imagining
that we sing at the same pitch.
Don't change.
Request permission to use this poem