The Musician

Your tune is old and familiar, as old as human, comforting and fatiguing. You exchange in love, commerce in time. A world of sound and sometimes sorrow, brightly colored rooms and sometimes blackness, your musician’s heart and home are open, your mind inviting, your mood reportedly shifting. Your song, lustfully romantic, is too familiar; it stirs the cauldroned stew of guarded moments and defense mechanisms, over-brimming the pot’s sterile concoction. Strung tight, the strings struggle to free their song, the one about the loves lost, dulled feelings and despairing anger. Many familied yourself, your sole sun centers your world, keeps the anger reigned and the songs unraveling: the one about reluctant parents, abandoning parents, maniacal mothers, furious fathers, sons of savage mothers, forsaken ballad of wish and wood-filled cabins. The gentle soul wanders in the circumscribed perimeter of hearth and home, waiting for the right riff, the bass line, the righthand rhythm, while the sunlight spends itself into the starred and scarred grey skyline. What ghosts haunt the tune? The vortex whirls, spinning the fear and regret feverishly into pinpoint perspective. Love is medicine.
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