Monday, September 5, 2011

The Singer

Making his way
Up and down the aisles
Just he and his imagination
In the pursuit of happiness

Conversations abound
His melody cuts right through
To pockets
On to passing hands
Into his cap overturned
Slowly filling
With the cabbage
That never grows old.

His needle skips
(Several times)
Till his fingers snaps
Reverberating a time long-gone
But so desired
Till he jokes
Returning us
To the reality of his performance

He just needs a little extra change
For whatever is his urgency...


I fade into the background again
A mute earthy tone
Amongst ever-present splashes
Of technicolor songs;
Thrown by the wayside
Somebody picked me up
Wore me for awhile
Only to tuck me away
Assuming I wished to placate
An existence chosen for me

Given nothing
A relic I became
Rising from the archeological dig
In the forgotten realms of my soul
I found I was better suited
For museum shelves
Rather than the corridors of the living
As it was all out of place
Too loud
Too consuming
And I had no knowledge
Of how to adjust
Just to survive
Scampering from corner to corner
Waiting for the ravishes of time...