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Updated: Jun 30, 2022

The choir choirs most Sunday mornings

A song that sings a lament of another time.

Curious. Ominous. Wonder.

Awe sounding like it is singing about the awe of singing.

The sounds echo softly out from those stone walls

bouncing into my ear drums

banging this aging heart.

melting melancholy into words.

I think it could be Latin Because I don’t understand a bloody word. This chant. This hearing.

These shivers. This ache. I don’t understand a word.

Such relief, then, this loss of the need to understand a thing.

It's just a fucking choir, I can hear you say. Yeah. It is just a fucking choir.

Still I’ll always imagine that you turned back for a moment.

And in the reflection of that pane, I saw you look to see if I was looking to see.

I was looking baby. But our eyes only met as seeing.

Gone. No Sunday. No choir. No church. No reflection. No you. No me. Uncatchable this then, appearing as typing. And still no one ever caught catching

Or will write about this here writing And that is the song that cannot be sung. This echo of love trying to catch an echo, as it echoes off into the sunset.... if it never was.

And it never was.

Still you are the love of my life. Gone. x

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21 ene 2023

great poem... and this photo.. of the paino keys upon the beach.. wow!! it just scrambles the brain

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