Broken Window

Outside looking in
is not what I thought
it would be –
a pale reflection
ghosts still alive
silently haunting me.
Shards of glass
betray my secrets,
pieces of my soul;
words unuttered
abused and misplaced
forgetting what they hold.
I see what passes
for time before me,
on whisper-thin thread,
and through the window
looking out, see
the spirit that’s been bled.

Playing

She hums,
            resonating,
            still vibrating,
though it can’t be heard now,
not by us,
but it was there,
alive,
just a short while ago
when sound was tangible,
when fingers
            danced upon her neck –
            pressure
            release
            pressure
            release
            and held
by the stroke of the hand.
Quietly she sits now,
waiting for more,
            patient,
            obedient,
whispering my name;
and soon enough
I shall let her sing,
give voice to her desire
and let her be
what she was meant to be.