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Wider Room
There is a wider sense of you
skipping stones across the water
of loud, smoke-filled rooms.
Smell of whiskey on your voice,
laughter comes but mostly goes,
you miss the music in your feet.
Thinking only of some desperate distance day,
when stories, neon-colored prose,
told to every young and old,
have a cleaner taste of telling to be told.
"neon-colored prose"
Nice turn of phrase - more brilliant than the event perhaps. Second readings are better. :D
Memory is a fickled lover.
Memory is a fickled lover.
"...whiskey on your voice..."
A "Poe"esque sounding here. You have an eclectic way with words, poet :D
A sweet rhythm to this poem.
A sweet rhythm to this poem.
Thank you. Randy
Thank you. Randy