#pomme
The silence
is not deafening,
the flowers
are not listening
to my hushed soliloquy -
and so I speak;
I only ask for an ounce, but
I yearn for more bouts
of domestic felicity.
It's not some grand wish,
no mere flight of fancy -
only a gentle plea
for an interlude
from the monotone
blur of days.
At first, it sounds
so very twee:
layered harmonies
and classical strings,
like an echo of
Vivaldi's "Spring"
But Pomme asks,
"Pourquoi j’y pense encore?
Y a quoi de mieux avant?"
Why do I still think about it?
What was there
that was better before?
In an earlier verse,
I was slowly
singing towards
my dirge.
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 12:22 AM UTC
...
Of despair,
the verge upon
I sung the dirge
Through tears it swelled -
a painful curse
Why vie for things
that cannot be?
But this lament
was a fallacy
The cacophony softens,
and I recall -
"La musique adoucit
les pleurs"
Jul 23, 2025
Jul 23, 2025 at 5:41 AM UTC