deepundergroundpoetry.com
A Place With Noise
Filling it up to the brim
What kind of noise?
The kind of the beautiful variety.
The kind you get when opening up a new book, hearing the pages crackle to life.
Like the sound of your hand fumbling to find my fingertips.
The pattering of the rain on a tin can. The splash of wet paint on canvas and the scritch of pencil on paper.
The sound of breathing in morning dew, along with the sigh of satisfaction after a summer nap.
The exclamations made after seeing a comet or the silence I seek and long to hear while holding you close.
The rush of distant cars while the grasshoppers chirp and the blades of grass swish by your ears.
What kind of noise?
The kind of the beautiful variety.
The kind you get when opening up a new book, hearing the pages crackle to life.
Like the sound of your hand fumbling to find my fingertips.
The pattering of the rain on a tin can. The splash of wet paint on canvas and the scritch of pencil on paper.
The sound of breathing in morning dew, along with the sigh of satisfaction after a summer nap.
The exclamations made after seeing a comet or the silence I seek and long to hear while holding you close.
The rush of distant cars while the grasshoppers chirp and the blades of grass swish by your ears.
Published 22nd Sep 2014
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22nd Sep 2014 11:14am
28th Sep 2014 4:50pm
