Sweet and sad be the song
Flowing through speakers;
It spills into the room,
Filling the corners high…
Wistful notes tinged with longing.
Memories deluge me,
Different than those being sung of.
Throngings soft among the dust,
Long-decayed dreams juvenilely held,
Cradled in the farthest corners of the mind.
Such be stirred to a semblance of life
By lyrical music of all things,
Sung by a stranger,
Who sang to someone further unknown to me.
Yet the song itself and subsequent notes
Soothe the dust while fanning it away.
Sing low, little bird…
Sing low, for the sound carries me home.
Opening both eyes back I am,
Here, in my own rooms.
The reverie settling in its place
In the past;
In the still-watered pool once sat oft by.
Let the leaves of longing fall;
Let them spin on the surface and slowly sink
To rest with a myriad of colors below.
A single song spawned seconds of memory…
Reality glares out bright
As the daydreams fade.
How sweet the grip of the doorknob…
How the glass shines, the floor squeaks.
Oh, the reveries cannot match it…
The song is soon over.
Notes fading, the speakers grow silent;
All sounds remaining
Be those of my own movements.
Slowly serenity abounds.
