Tonight I type meaningless things
to a machine.
My fingers dance lightly over keys
tapping out a forceful symphony.
They long to tell a story,
dance again the new ballet
in the dark cold center of the stage.
I call this life.
And it must trully be a gift
to wish so much,
but be happy with so little.
Yet I would that you knew me
for more than my words,
and that those who've seen
could have also heard...

Poetry is a choice, you know.

10/27/2001

Posted on 10/27/2001
Copyright © 2025 Lacy D Phillips