A voice is heard from far away,
beyond my concious fears.
It titters on a solemn song
that many others may hear.
Still my mind renders itself solitary
among the conductor's notes;
the rising octaves, the falling keys,
the lines on which they float
into a final crescendo,
all my fears brought into the light.
The melody halts, the ink blots
and so does end my strife.
Mar 15, 2011
Mar 15, 2011 at 6:14 PM UTC
A voice is heard from far away,
beyond my concious fears.
It titters on a solemn song
that many others may hear.
Still my mind renders itself solitary
among the conductor's notes;
the rising octaves, the falling keys,
the lines on which they float
into a final crescendo,
all my fears brought into the light.
The melody halts, the ink blots
and so does end my strife.
Request permission to use this poem