Resonance

When you stroke the harps of these feelings
you do not know your fingers
will dissolve in the threads
of all echoes swirling to spread.

When you dig in to the guitar of my senses
you do not know
these scratches
will settle
through all the pages of hearts and flowers
to be read.

When you stab silence,
in the chest of papers,
you do not know
the tip of your words
will crack open
the red ink of the lesion
that your penknife
would mercilessly shed.

You tune your gashing cords
to the tone of your sorrows
and do not know
on the tongue of this song
you would wave
in to the millions of hearts
that will rise from dead.

Blanks
would burst with colours as much
-in the asylum of your fancies,
in the effusion of a minuscule smutch, -
as one peck
would weave a thousands waves
on waters.

And one wave
will write
on the surface of this pond
and such:
this butterfly would cease,
even in the gravity,
of a tender kiss
of
touch!