Rhythm

I wait for the rhythm to begin.

Thump.

Clap.

Thump.

I listen to the rhythm, getting the beat

To the ocean of words

Which I know will come,

Hidden inside a forest of

Brown oak.

Clasp.

Shank.

Clap.

I steady myself,

Waiting for the smell of pure

Delight to stab me in the side.

Clap.

Thump.

Bristle.

I watch the endless thumping

Of fingers plastered in white paint,

Writing chalk onto

A life so tired.

Humble.

Rumble.

Bumble.

I can taste the success on my redness,

Taste it pondering about

In my bones,

Searching for an everlasting love.

Jumble,

Bash!

Cash!

I feel the pulse

Tearing at my ears,

Looking inside the pink source

For a spongy place to sit and rest.

Bumble.

Clap.

Bristle.