The music that lingers
in my mind when I awaken
is the rhythm of a life
of which I dream to live.

If I could get these symphonies
unlocked from the rooms
in which they reverberate and boom,
I would finally be who I know I should be,
but the rhythm's undone when I do come too;
I'm only ever left with the conclusion
that made my psyche break through-
A conclusion without the question,
a harmony without a melody,
a melody without rhythm,
a break without a build,
a crescendo undeserved.

I carry with me back to consciousness
no evidence of the brilliance observed;
no tally or tale or the things seen and heard.
But I know that I saw them;
I know what I heard.
I feel the rhythm inside me
and I hear the words.
I remember the beats
and the lost melodies.
Never-the-less...
they are incomplete...

just like me.

A clip of a phrase left to rattle around.
An earworm set to unheard sound.

"Dont be afraid
to get too wild"

These dreams are the compositions of some other soul
The music and musings of minds not my own
but I wonder in the early morning grey,

Do the people that I dream to be also dream of being me?



I awoke from a dream and slowly came too with a rhythm and the words that broke through.
And I am always so frustrated because there is no way to capture the song that I heard.
And there never has been.
I am no musical genius, but I know a good song when I hear one,
And I hear a lot of music.
Less now than before,
but I still find myself hallucinating wild bebop jazz
with trumpets and strings,
big band ballad piano swings,
deep house thumpers and jungle themes
Heavy metal string burners
And flamenco beats
In my dreams they are full compositions, with layers and evolution and meaning.  
I just can't remember the words, and the music of mind is not the music of the world, so I have no means to recreate it.
Mostly because I don't know where to begin.
Because the inception of the song in reality or dream,
is always a fugue of some other thing
some music or rhythm that broke away from the meaning it has in the world
and echoed until it became a song I heard.

Maybe when I die I'll get the lyrics sheet in heaven.
That's the only heaven I want.
The one with the words I lost in my sleep,
And the music of my dreams and hallucinations.
The soundtrack to my subconscious.
It's something to be heard.

It will be my Magnum Opus.

From the initial note of
breath,
You conduct your musical
composition of life

Each day is a repeat sign
A commencement of anew
Flow through the dynamics
of emotions,
Embrace the crescendos and
diminuendos of life's trials
and tribulations

Some days smile like the
legato sun (progress)
Other days weep like the
staccato moon (stagnancy)
And so you produce pages
upon pages of the music
of life

play, rest, play, rest

Until the time has come for
you to
Confront the solemn
final double-bar line of death
If you could,
Would you take the chance
to listen to your musical
composition of life?


—
Melody
3/23/19

my hands are round instead of flat, now if only
my thoughts were stored in my hands
my brains and some motor control
some real talent besides empty words
my hands are similar enough to my mind

my thinking has become soft and flabby
my digits do the same wrong movements
I refrain from stretching out for what I want
my skin is so delicate I fear I may tear it
my cells liable to break under slight duress

my fingers small and deformed, clumsy
always falling short when I reach for the bar
my fingertips live in a numb icy nether
my circulation is clearly beyond subpar
my heartbeat second-rate and slowing

I wonder why my immense sky is so limiting
my body is my graven image I dare not pray to
my manifestation of an inferior mind
my burning bush is barely a flicker
as time oxidizes my single lonely existence

My tears draw the
aerial view of a thick
wood, where the hands
of a ghost, carved an
easel whose flavour
brims my mouth with
crimson and purple.
Inspiration.
My tears draw the
shattered background
of a blurred photo of
green patches hanging
on an empty road.
Grief.
My tears draw branches
of olive trees kissing the
foam of the sea of sigh and
whispers.
Melancholy.
My tears draw palm lines.
They read long life
and well being.
Betrayal.
My tears draw the shape
of his eyes, wide open on
my consistency, as vibrant
as a melody of an arcane
chant, the fingerprints of
his protective gestures,
the circle of fire of his
embrace.
Love.

Love is more than sightless we know.
Love is the whole thing,
everything in this world;
- you can do either good or bad,
right or wrong,
in kindness or selfishness
- literally just for ourselves or to anyone else we genuinely love.
Love has it all labels – it’s all about us how we give love neither an evil nor a brilliant name.