Music again.
It always comes to music.
Always good, in its misty perfection.
It is the bridge to your yestermind.
The smiles in the way far back.
Even for the lost. the dying.
The electric guitar in my veins.
Stinging strings ripping my soul.
Not for damage but for greater growth!
The cancer everyone needs.
Like bubonic symphonic coos
from metal head doves
of golden fired mustering.
A parade down mirrored streets.
Gliding like fireflies
across all the paths that are you.
Dead on
right on
cried on
thoroughly you.
uncontrollably you.
Fathom the fullness of chasing something
that resides entirely in your soul?
An alchemy of pox - e, moxie,
and all things cobalt blue.
The moon light see of answers.
Only an ear away.