Untitled for Others 4 – Music maketh the person
Drifting, perplexed the foreign language of black dots consumes the soul
I am disconcerted by the sounds that invade and conquer,
questioning how specks on parallel lines can evoke feelings and buttonhole
the moment without ever shaking hands or knowing my past.
Classical lines or disjointed improvisation, grime or jungle or something from the garage
pulsating or docile, swirling round the brain, downloaded or broadcast
lifting, shifting - emotions on fire, smouldering or extinguished forever.
Listening is everything, feeling the beat of life keeps us ever alive.
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