Why beat? Why strum the soul wire and set time with chest drum, the bass of your footsteps approaching like a solemnly timed dirge that creaks floorboards like dusty ivory keys in an abandoned house, deserted by a family on the run, the way rotting organs flee the dirty bones of a ribcage. It’s the music of loss, singing sweetly in the morning hours that spill soft light over the one side of stirred bedsheets, the other pristine like a home awaiting arrival. That home. Voices caught in the dry plaster springing from wallpaper tears, echoing cries setting cadence to a flipbook story replayed day after day, the deftless duty and failure of earning, the deep longing for connection, the fear of missing out on bliss at corners unturned. It’s like song, searching for an ear but revealed to be tone deaf; such malice hiding in the tides of life, those unreasonable forces pushing and pulling the hands of the needy into fist and open palm and then fall, fall, falling from such grace, winds of passion swirling in like flashfire let loose in deeply inhaling lungs. Explosion or fizzle, there’s char left behind, the stubborn soot of together covering every faith, staining thoughts and riding lyrics that drift through day and then, at the sun’s molten sleep, haunt dreams of lost kisses and sweat-stung embrace. Those footsteps make the floors whine even as they soften with distance, on the turning away, a tune better left forgotten, but as insistent as that circadian rhythm reminding always that this is a melody unsung, but beaten into permanent memory.
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