When tired, listen.
Music is the breath of life.
Listen, I am tired.
Asleep, I hear a visual language,
A deeper mind.
Music, now.
__________
She slips in the doorway while I lay in bed, listening. Grandma Nana’s come to pick me up for a day of visiting. Yet, aren’t those the footsteps of my wife? She enters with uncanny similarity.
 |
| A painting of the artist Kete Ephraim Marcus by Kete Ephraim Marcus |
A style of musical motion stamps on the floor of my eardrum with the gentle line of breath, issuing as her unspeaking voice through our apartment of dead morning air. She is memory, alive.
 |
| Morning, Interior by Maximillien Luce |
As I wake to the glorious open space of an apartment, couched in the warm light of a restful morning, and my friend’s visiting. Apologetic and endeared, he respects my unconventional successes, gifting me seasonal greetings with the cheeky light of a sparkling card and pagan decoration.
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| Paris: In memory of the young deceased friend by Shalva Kikodze |
We sit together in the freedom of being up and awake for the sun and its glowing gaze. The room is just so cool to comfort the body in an easy choice of soft, wooly over-garments. He begins to recite the melody of a waltz, for playing on the guitar.
 |
| Guitar and Pipe by Juan Gris |
With heavenly beckoning, his sweet and delicate face points at the brown stand of Indonesian wood in the corner, my acoustic guitar. I repeat the melody, as it glides effortlessly on the airy surface of my mind.
_________
"The spiritual recluse
On a steep decline
Passing without Failure,
Churning with Thirst,
& Separated
from life"
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