A Frame

I see through the glass

A field of grass

The many blades it takes

To paint it green

A frame to hold a thought

Then, comes the rain

Solidifies the scene

Then, mutates slowly

Shape-shifts into dream

To the echo of a cello

The sound of a violin

Those melancholic wisps

Listening to Dvorak’s chant

“Song to the moon”

A haunting melody

A sublime simplicity


Thatcher Doran



About pmisteil

Hi, my name is Paul though I write under other names like, Thatcher and Paolo, I love literature, art and architecture their passion and drama....the contradictions. The notion of Truth-who is the person behind the mask? Or does it matter! I like long walks and longer conversations over cappuccinos in a cafe with atmosphere and the rest is a journey!
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