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 circle in time,
brings me back to where I had begun
another time before I recalled,
this place I am today.
I suspend my
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