Watch the notes of a dying song,
gasping as if the air would run out.
It beckoned forth, the silence to come
and then was lost, leaving the memory of sound.
It had only just left
but hard to remember now.
Somehow it had not been so strong.
Watch each moment passing by,
stretched with only a slight
echo of past remembrance,
a room once filled with excitement.
Words bringing forth such thoughts,
not one’s own
but one could well understand.
Finding warmth in another’s feelings,
a ringing beat carrying them ashore.
Then playing out their meaning
on the mind’s wide stage.
And then dropping off the edge.
Another time would not be the same.
But that’s what they said, those voices.
They were not always right.
Later at the right moment,
they would be recalled.
They would ride those same currents
if one would only ask,
and bare their soul in performance.
And watching that would feel like home.