Typed Music


I suppose these are just little pieces of me, wrapped up in words.

The forgotten melodies of my mind.


67. Music

If music is love expressed
 Then I am a cacophony
 Of taught violins
 Misaligned and discordant
 Forever striking at angles
 With the rivulets of romance
 That thrum melodic
 From voices too rawly plucked

If music is love expressed
 Then she is the runaway blues
 Of a melting saxophone
 Eroding silver slivers from the moon
 And serving starlight on a dish
 For the swoon of the fate
 That crosses her palms

If music is love expressed
 Then she is the riotous guitars
 And the savage sweat
 Of bloodied drumsticks
 The heat of frenetic heartbeat energy
 The tremulousness of the ground beneath
 The colossal sound of writhing notes
 And strings like white knuckles

 If music is love expressed
 Then she is an Allemande in A minor
 And she the croon of a steaming lullaby
 And she is the tarnished fingernails of a broken chord
 And she the constant and preoccupied beat
 Of a rhythm so violently syncopated
 That it refuses to listen to her
 And she is a bluebird returning to the sky
 And she the sorrowful ecstasy of a lone cadenza
 And she is the wake of a morning that creeps with frost
 And she the humid and up-swung spectacle
 Of a foot-tapping jazz number
 That flirts with the air it spins upon...

And if music is love expressed
 Then you,
 My dear,
 Are the only silence

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