Sta.sh
She hears a ringing,
A whirring that won’t subside,
It nags at her mind and wrenches her consciousness,
Before it gives up its endless game.
There’s nothing.
Tears threatened to reveal her as,
She stands before the crowd,
A beautiful yet hapless creature,
Of grace and perfect manners,
And all she can do is curtsey,
As she takes her place.
Nothing, there’s nothing,
And no one can know this,
She is a pianist with broken fingers,
A musician cast into shadow,
For she can only hear.
Nothing.
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you may have noticed,
i don't usually comment
on work written from
a prompt, because the
concept is foreign to me.
basic inspiration is my
guide. this contribution
of yours, though "prompted"
appears inspired, hence i
am prompted to praise it
highly.
pip
something i notice more lately,
though i'm sure it's always been
this way, but visual and mental
"cues" can mean a lot in how a
first impression of something,
or someone, goes.
also, i and, i'm certain, others
set conscious standards to justify
inside ourselves these internal
prejudices, arbitrary though they
may be.
how strangely human we are.
pip
PS: besides, i can't comment
on every fricken thing i read!