blue

born in tchaikovsky's sixth
symphony the finale begins
quietly tapers into melody
meandering sweetly cafard
swelling weaving between
every measure tricks you
doesn't it? when will this
collapse relief must be only
a downbeat away despite
how never-ending infinite
give me to hold all sounds
for when it feels as if every
suspension could dissipate
into a sonorous sea of spires
granting notes to settle like
soft snow,                    it does

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741