if our life stories
were instruments
and someone pressed their
fingertips or lips to them,
what music would
rise from the ground into
the air? or would it
sit quietly in the corner,
here and there a
barely audible hum
as it longingly stared
out the window, lost
in a melody but
forgetting how it goes?
or would it be
an instrument of which
no one knows how
to play, which is why
at times, in beautiful
moments, we can never
find the words to say?
sound cannot reach our
minds, because it got
caught between the rungs –
climbing from our lungs
to our hearts – or what
if the piece is incomplete
and we are still
trying to find our part?


6 comments on “instrumental”
  1. A very good poem. Thanks for sharing!


  2. Word prints says:

    Reblogged this on word prints and commented:
    Tiny fawns poems makes me soo happy

    Liked by 1 person

    1. briannadawn says:

      Aw, thank you so much for the lovely comment and reblog. 🙂


  3. ruminatingmuses says:


    Liked by 1 person

      1. ruminatingmuses says:

        De nada.

        Liked by 1 person

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