Feb 2014
There he sat
Off in the distance.
Far.
Near.
Then he played,
And the fire began,
And the choir sang,
Off in the distance.
And the drums beat while he watched,
And the winds sang while he waited,
Nothing could move him,
And nothing could make him sing.
All was at war
Inside and out.
All was at peace
And there was no doubt.
Now the soft breeze
And just a guitar
Whispered its satisfaction.
All is well, all is well.
“Till tomorrow, then?”
Off in the distance.
Far.
Near.
Then he played,
And the fire began,
And the choir sang,
Off in the distance.
And the drums beat while he watched,
And the winds sang while he waited,
Nothing could move him,
And nothing could make him sing.
All was at war
Inside and out.
All was at peace
And there was no doubt.
Now the soft breeze
And just a guitar
Whispered its satisfaction.
All is well, all is well.
“Till tomorrow, then?”
I like to think there's a kind of poetry that only comes while listening alone to music. I call it Immersion Poetry, although if there's a real formal title for this, I'd love to know. Immersion was written to the tune "Track One" by Steven Wilson, and it can be found at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2B78UblUP6Q&list;=PL624E9FFEF24961D7&feature;=share&index;=2
