I listen to notes,

take me on a certain journey,

could be jazz,

perhaps the Moody Blues,

another day with B.B. King.

I like to imagine being in the sailboat that appears,

when in the throes of Enya’s words.

I wonder sometimes where to go,

then find a melody, a certain ambience,

to match the cadence of my mood today.

I find I am lost in curiosity,

when just the flutes appear to soften the blow

of my mind’s hard fought surrender to reality.

Inside the fantasy,

of certain rhythm, perhaps just a nostalgic memory,

I’m bound to finish the exercise of definition.

That moment,

that circle in time,

brings me back to where I had begun

another time before I recalled,

this place I am today.

With music,


I suspend my



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