inside a thriller novella
there is a certain kind of quietness
that fills an empty box
where light as we know it
is unable to penetrate
you can breathe in the cold but you
cannot see where it dissipates
and you wonder when you whisper
how far your voice will carry
dog days fade and cats runaway
but inside the book they remain
as if nothing has ever changed
old mysteries become solved
inside the quietness of an otherwise
thriller novella
where old lovers and killers
are introduced as heroes
who should never be trusted
december two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Now you’re speaking my language. The last lines are just perfect
thanks so much Rose – I’m happy you enjoyed this piece
I love the flow of this poem and the theme which it carries perfectly. Perhaps we all prefer the expected deep down.
Thanks so much Chris and happy new year to you and your loved ones.
super
thanks again for visiting!