The music spreads its tenement over a city of spirits & coffee flats.
A voice chases the tail of a broken wind,
sipping sentiments from the minds of a people
aching to be free from the claustrophobic raiments of society.
A man w/his strolling guitar forsakes the city
in the lilac wake of a flute dream reaching timidly
for the hand of any god wearing a jaded dress,
spilling forth lace & perfect notes nearly weeping
in the midst of angels falling into flight.
Everywhere, the dawn lies september failures down in the tired streets.
A flower breaks its petals into bloom,
then laughs loud enough to whisper over the edge
of someone else’s beautiful scream scattered
across a concrete floor into insanity.
The door to the basement café closes,
leaving the bones to hallow w/in, where no one is dying,
but a funeral song just finishes its last verse.
No body hears the final note touch briefly on silence,
then dissipate into obscure obelisks.
On Thursdays, Friday turns to green to hide its child-echo indigo eyes
& week’s end follows a subtle rinse of sunshine around the corner.
Monday comes anyway w/too many melodies
playing in the private garden of a backyard cemetery.
The morning rolls carefully to the end of the line
& waits for the moon to glow
so it can let go & disperse itself into music,
sleeping in a bed of fluidic ambiguity.
It’s a great deal,
but perhaps not enough
The pen, a favorite brush.
Like magic, it may be
Lack of compassion,
lack of feeling
Never growing up
but growing old
Poems From The Archives (a new section of poems from my Madness Period) by NIKOtheOrb
*Image Credits (all images used with permission through CC license)
“What will be there?” & “Empty Cage” by H.Koppdelaney
“The show must go on. . .” by David Baker
“Magic is true!” by Xava du
“488 Last Day Dream 15-Incognito” by Nebojsa Mladjenovic