My body,

The secret is not what I am but what I hold,
in the cary hall of bones:
silent to the world, audible to me;
untaught, the heart strums its strings
the daily anthem for the business of being
conducted by the baton of the soul.
The rib cage expands, an accordion of lungs,
the piano, rummaged with pulses
while from the throat's flute, a solo
high yip, toots and the low breathing hum.
The gut throbs catches the gene
of the shifting humor, it's a blood- born
language, wordless, speaking
the truth with only the touch
of my essence's fingers.




Poetry by yoonoos peerbocus
Read 45 times
Written on 2026-05-11 at 02:50

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Aniobi Chidinma Elizabeth The PoetBay support member heart!
Literally turned the body into an orchestra. Wow.
2026-05-11


Sameen The PoetBay support member heart!
"in the cary hall of bones" is quite a line.
2026-05-11