I’ve hidden in this place before, more exposed than truly hidden.
Revealed by an awkwardness, an intent, that didn’t fully flourish.
Now here unbound I can be myself, behind the music and the language,
Within the shadows and glow light, the half sense to write or just listen,
Till the pen balances thinking with drinking.
A crumpling of a coffee packet accompanying, as the music spills on into jazz, into life,
And the wonder at not understanding other people talk,
Takes nothing from the very fact that they are my company, and in theirs I revel in a notion of life, where my fantasies flourish.
I may be mistaken, even choosing to be so
And I allow the play its new act, my life a new scene, and the writer once more to reality.
(sound of pen dropping and beer slurping:))
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