I spoke long to the gathering,
not for echoes to return,
but because my tongue hummed,
the old song of the tong.
As a shadow curled in the corner,
the bones of the house yawned,
between floorboards to exhale,
they simply forgot to weep.
It merely continued,
its slow unraveling,
like a spool of black thread,
in a room without hands.
One morning I awoke to find,
the ghost had moved my shoes,
an inch left of their usual place,
just to see if I’d notice.
I never spoke of it again,
but I leave the window open now,
in case it wants to climb,
back into the wind.
Hoi hoi A.,
There’s a theory that says that the first four sentences determine, if the reader wants to go on reading.
And the four of this poem take me by storm.
Never knew that there is a tong exactly the same as the Dutch Tong. Pronunciation the same as in Dutch too.
Ah well. Love the poem needless to say.
Kind regards, Gus
Thank you, Gus.
Powerfully penned, Adagio. Excellent write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian.