Nothing paints our bodies like the grief in pain. It floats in the ribs. It expands In dread Like a red violin With a broken string. She scrambles away on the air, Exhaling notes already composed by another. It is music gone mad. It is anguish and ecstasy Sharing the page With misfortune. She has climbed as high as she can. Happiness brushes against her, It is her acquittal, Transitory; Composer of this instant, Her masterpiece. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)