A young girl—
Out too late—
Running through a quiet urban city
searching for the sounds
That have been playing in her head
The radio gives her no help—
Those songs aren’t what she’s looking for
She craves and older more mature sound
The sound that only the dark night possesses
She can almost feel the sound,
It’s strength is almost feeding into her
She takes the bait
And makes her way to the old pub
She’s amazed by the Saxophone
And the blues lifting the air
She lets them fill her mind
And numb her surroundings
“Oh, sounds, why haven’t we met before?”
She cries out.
But the sounds keep playing
And drowning out her thoughts.
She now knows where she belongs.
© Regan
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 4:27 PM UTC
A young girl—
Out too late—
Running through a quiet urban city
searching for the sounds
That have been playing in her head
The radio gives her no help—
Those songs aren’t what she’s looking for
She craves and older more mature sound
The sound that only the dark night possesses
She can almost feel the sound,
It’s strength is almost feeding into her
She takes the bait
And makes her way to the old pub
She’s amazed by the Saxophone
And the blues lifting the air
She lets them fill her mind
And numb her surroundings
“Oh, sounds, why haven’t we met before?”
She cries out.
But the sounds keep playing
And drowning out her thoughts.
She now knows where she belongs.
© Regan
I said to my grandma “I love those saxophone blues” and this poem came to life.