Torn paper
By Izak R. Crafford
I hold the scraps in quivering hands,
careful notes on what was said:
the only link to that life, even if it’s dead
a mere torn paper on which a name stands
Punched into the once smooth expanse with brutal force,
contained there to be torn up by a puppy’s teeth;
I hold the scraps. Underneath
the irrational misery lies terror and longing love of course
sounding in the laden notes of recorded Franz Liszt:
a memory of an angel’s hand,
a purely flaming beauty in an Autumn world of sunshine and
weeping willow leaves and an aspiration under the touch of those fingers to exist.
I cannot go forward, there is no future I can see;
standing with the scraps of paper, sorrowful, absurd, I turn to old memories and to thee.
A Note from the Author:
"A paper on which I had made notes concerning a touching WhatsApp voice message was blown from my music stand and torn up by my Labrador pup. I describe in this poem the irrational feeling of loss I experienced when holding the paper in my hand, a recording of Franz Liszt playing in the background and memories of a particular meeting with the person whose name was written at the top of the paper flooding into my mind.
The name is "punched" into the paper, referring to how braille is written by hand."
- Izak R. Crafford