Crashing waves upon distant shores.
Trying to make my song, a love song… Trying to make it, all yours. The Cicadas dancing at night , over and over, the same song plays, chafing upon tender heart strings. Violins in tempest, wrought iron stories, pinging like, footsteps on a forest floor.
Like Needles and pins, the ones that stick in our mind. Overlapping melodies from time to time. Crescent songs in the darkness of night, the dripping of tears, drifting downstream, drifting alright, drifting all night.
My song(s) will never play, not in other’s places, not in here nor in there, just black letters floating like liquid dreams. I feel the draft of cold dense clouds. I feel the heaviness of pain, like songbirds kept in canary coteries. Icons push past rich velvet cases. Inspiration, consecration, conflagrations, these make up our songs, with grains and coats of irony. No time for those things now, those that cannot last, until next time, maybe never or then again maybe, I’ll so try.
It all gets confusing, these songs that I am using. They double for themselves. They fold up and spread out again. Feelings as hard as the words they portray. No, many words that follow no path, at all. Effigies at best. But an effigy is profound, with the right kinds of song. With the push and pull of chords, past receivers and expounding alliterations, we delve into simulacra, crooning our version of that great song, feeling we have done something after-all.
Six worded songs, more than a haiku, it was more than just fun, more fun, more fun for now. Years re-pasted in the hallways, which look all too familiar, like pounds of upset visions, blurring fainted paint and changing numbers on doors so thin.
So if you wish to portray what others have said, that’s okay. Just give it a new cover and be pleased.