If I Were A Vinyl Record
wispy grooves of sound playing on dusty, conical flat lungs scratching the meat off a chalk board of throat burning fumes I abuse my recall of better days hands at throat contorting fingers curling up to barbarously dig for more required air life seems harshly longer when you can't inhale the gasping sounds play over and over bringing tears to one's eyes as if the power of death's tune was invited willingly what a master peace of sound the echos of a squeezed life being drawn to a painful untimely sad death with a spinning head that goes around and around till vomit runs from a embittered mouth and leaves you with a pungent taste the taste of murder the kind, that plays out playing out in some kind of illness smelling like the dusty air is on fire Copyright © verlecia fields | Year Posted 2017A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.
Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.
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