Upon a harp, she hangs, stretched
and reaching out to the heavens.
Entrapped between strings
that are bound tightly
unable to move
unwilling to speak.
No words can express
what she is feeling.
In her heart is a song
with no tune, no rythme, no beat.
And so she remains, is, silent.
waiting to be plucked.
The mandolin player waits
the audience, eager.
He is oblivious to her plight.
Once they wrote a score,
notes etched upon a page,
to play in harmony.
But now the strings cut
deep, too painful.
So she stops trying to move.
When she opens her mouth
a song with no sound.
And he does not hear her cry.
© the dishonest woman
and reaching out to the heavens.
Entrapped between strings
that are bound tightly
unable to move
unwilling to speak.
No words can express
what she is feeling.
In her heart is a song
with no tune, no rythme, no beat.
And so she remains, is, silent.
waiting to be plucked.
The mandolin player waits
the audience, eager.
He is oblivious to her plight.
Once they wrote a score,
notes etched upon a page,
to play in harmony.
But now the strings cut
deep, too painful.
So she stops trying to move.
When she opens her mouth
a song with no sound.
And he does not hear her cry.
© the dishonest woman
