Just a sliver of hollowed wood
then the baton silences the air
a whistle in the dark
of the Piccolo
As the audience turns to ice
like a lullaby over an empty grave
with a whisper crawling across
the stage
The piccolo doesn’t make music
we summon things weighted beneath
stones and alibis
A rendezvous with paramour











The imagery is subtle yet unsettling. That final phrase leaves an impression. Nice write, Atticus. 🙂
Can you imagine, hearing the whistle sound, alone at night in the dark woods…without light.