Picture couresy of Bing
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Multicolored lighting amidst the sound
of rhythmic thunder pounded the huge hall.
The laughter and droning noises had a hollow, metallic sound.
The human Ferris wheel was in motion around the center spoke.
Quick glaces, smiles…some real, other’s set in concrete faces.
There was quiet desperation set in the eyes of many.
Touching in passing moments of movement were soft warm bodies
pressed against arms, hips brushing fingertips.
Out of loneliness did I seek this place
a passenger on a self-made time machine.
I am tired of too many futures coming to this moment.
I want the warmth of my youth.
Child-book romance where just the touch of a hand
freezes time in its beauty.
Primitive drums change tempo
the words are lost to the sensation of physical self.
Reality is moved to the edge of pulsating light beneath
the feet of bodies in tune with the sound.
Paired dancers locked in self-love
unaware of each other.
A checkerboard of kings and queens without mates
in a game without end.
Surrender whispers the voice within.
A reflection on a mirrored wall looks intently
at a standing figure.
A misplaced look of aging shown in
salt and peppered hair with growing signs of age
around the eyes.
The dream of youth shatters.
The Guardian of Time Present
leaves through the portal marked “Exit.”
The dream is no more.
Poetry is such a lost art. Back before we had eighty million channels and nothing to watch, we used to sit around and listen to record albums and read each other things–sometimes Walt Whitman, sometimes Dylan Thomas.
Great blog!