in the mind


the cold breeze passes
faster, ever faster
eternally the passer
-by,

is it really so sad?
for what was, never comes back
and relief is a torment
that has to forget

and the leaves follow
empty and hollow
to reflect upon
self-inflicted sorrow

hot summer heat waves
hated, but spring craves
for fire, like a winter gaze
upon fireworks of autumn days

so as it was, a lasting quarrel
imagined, frantic,
do we still have the courage
to look to the morrow?


the piano player


his long fingers arch
beautiful form that marks
skill, for such
are days that gloss
is worth more than art

crescendo, fingers sculpting
a piece, but too many
do not understand what that means

scores are interpretations
but music these days
are bereft of imagination
all i hear are echoes
of long lost souls

is it so hard to dare?
conditioned we are, to enter no lair
though the self-invited are elect
but such men are selfish and rare