Friday, December 19, 2008

For Frenchie...

She plays
as though
her pain will
flow out through
her fingertips.

Her story is not
written on her
face but
in her

Her struggle
rides the
waves of her
vocal chords,
expecting there to be
a platform on
which they land,
but instead...
they fall past the
On and on, further
into the abyss of
Deaf Ears.

I expected to
find a small child
or an impoverished
woman, but
what i found when she
looked up will
forever stay framed in
my mind.


So much so,
that her beauty
shocked me...
And her mucis
haunts me.

And just as
she surprised me
when she came,
her absence tore
my heart in two,
as she breezed out
the door.

* i wrote this poem one night in a smoke filled club, i was working at the bar and a crackhead came prancing in, jumped straight on the piano, and poured her heart out into the music. it looked as if her fingers were in pain, and i didnt expect to find such a beautiful woman...i found out after she left that her name was Frenchie, and she was dying. here's to you's to you

1 comment:

Kristine said...

I think Frenchie would be proud.