a world without birds
is like a
a man without words
who listens to himself
through an empty shell on the shore,
thinks of a lonely melody -
lets it linger - just long enough
to remember where it started.
the first notes that ever touched a soul -
cave paintings and tribal drums,
now abstract expressionism and atomic explosions -
variations of a theme
somehow remains the theme
altered by lucid imagination
that takes it places
it never thought to go itself.
a melodic restlessness
in the hearts of all men,
a rhythmic whisper
in the memory of a lost love.
if
i can become
anything
please god
let me become
jazz

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