(16 January 1592 – 30 September 1669 / Worminghall, Buckinghamshire)


It was one of those
cool parties,
6 feet under the main streets,
in basements,
in side rooms,
in moldy steam rooms
where a heavy musk of night lingers
long after sunrise.

Pink lights illuminated the all black furnishings;
scattered pillows advocated the chaos.
There were 6 people,
laid across tables, armchairs, and walls.
Tilting casually,
against a surface of ember.
The music was far off balanced.
The bass guitar hummed
and rumbled the grey floors,
vibrating the entire scene.

The doors behind us sprang open.
Thousands of people poured in
Like a liquid, in different directions,
all talking a monotonous chatter,
monotonous blank faces

It was just you and I then,
in that cool metallic party,
hummed back into existence.
I guess I loved you then.
The air left my lungs in an exodus
and you remained,
not by choice.
The pink light illuminated your face,
a gold.
I was frantic then, I am now.

User Rating: 5 / 5 ( 0 votes ) 2

Comments (2)

f silence be a kind of death, He kindles grief who gives it breath; - - - Sounds rather Shakesperian
silence is solemn...great