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Bells
I wrap gnarled, jagged fingers around an equally roughened rope;
Pulland clangs resound, a powerful blend of texture and color, brassy and bright; at least that's what they say.
Oscillating hums roll though tightened sinews, putting them at easy; but if only for a moment.
The youngest clasp their ears in pain as they pass.
Disingenuous empathy.
How I yearn to reside within your consonant touch, hand in hand with a perfect fifth of Jack.
I've nothing but the cacophonous chords that bridge me to livelihood.
Perfect for the job, they said. I agreed, unable to discern between sneering and eagerness.
I shall name my daughter Esméralda.
