Haunted

The violin speaks long, sweet:
then pivots on a whim,
nails my spine to a long
empty hall inhabited by
echoes of wooden benches.

Youth cannot stay
but its sounds
still invade
every empty place.

The past glistens on
a powdered cheek
drips into
cracks in floors
and lies there
softly until it resounds
like the thunder of something
happening in another room.

Speak in whispers
or the past will thunder.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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