They ask us to write a simple string of words and not to sing a song,
Chosen few, left struggling silent, a sense of agony prolonged,
A flickering flame to steal away the air and take inturn my soul unburned;
left bereft of spoken thought,
My fingers for me whisper fiercely,
Release in pain silent words wrought.
Feb 25, 2020
Feb 25, 2020 at 7:31 PM UTC
They ask us to write a simple string of words and not to sing a song,
Chosen few, left struggling silent, a sense of agony prolonged,
A flickering flame to steal away the air and take inturn my soul unburned;
left bereft of spoken thought,
My fingers for me whisper fiercely,
Release in pain silent words wrought.