Plucking
The night was still, preparing to sleep in my bed,
A sound reverberates through my head,
A plucking sound broke through,
Fingers on metal, never heard of or knew,
Desponded, it was a reminder of a reverie
Sylvan dream, an entrancing melody.
In the dark, within my mind it was impounded,
Like memories of laughter, resounded.
The echoes that lingered, fleeting and sharp,
In memories, a strongly played harp,
I laid alone, listening to the quiet,
The strummed tones faded, into the morning becoming silent.
