Can there be joy in pain?
Release in death?
Beauty in tragedy?
Can my fingers tickle the water and play a tune?
Can my feet dance in quicksand?
Why not?
Sounds like I managed if I can write a three-line poem about it.
Picture prompt:
The pianists fingers tickled the surface, while
his other arm reached out in search of air.
Nobody saw his toes dancing in the quicksand.
****
Would you like to read some of the other entries?
Rereading Jane Eyre 
Really nice interpretation!
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Thank you Noelle! What would I do without your encouraging comments? 💗💖🌹
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