when I read my old words

hailing like an echo from years ago

they bring a memory

like a fresh face

dewy from the grave

sometimes these words

are like old friends

but I don’t always like it

sometimes it makes me moody

these memories beautiful and sad

creeping and crawling into my today

sometimes I think

the dead should perhaps be dead


Chopin and Liszt

their music is pure and each note a silver drop of water

interlaced and swimming in fountains of clarity

their sins forgiven by the beauty they left

pages of arpeggios strung together

marches and strings of triplets and runs and decadance

that erases the love and goodness they bestowed

or the malicious hurt they imposed

and to lose oneself in their music

is to play the best part of a human