Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Aug 2014
Now everything is then: the black and white and scuffly soundtrack of it all, showcased between the rich curtains
The smiles, are they real? And all these people, do they feel? They dance and drink and their dreams are in their very hands
Still, the sad violin reality cascades on the scene, wrecking the chandelier beauty of it, leaving a single glass behind, with only a few drops left

-cj
"The final turn of the *****: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home."
smallhands
Written by
smallhands
Please log in to view and add comments on poems