Tempo Rubato

Tempo Rubato


1

This is the voice of a dying man.
A double man.
A doubter.
My sick mind races,
Longing to be slow,
To be still.
As the tennis player
Attaining the angels
Sees the ball come huge
Over the net,
Suspended in the air
Forever,
As he saunters forward
And ponders how to hit it.

2

And if a song
Should disturb your composure,
Should break the stride
Of a pigeon-toed thought,
Rejoice, its rising fall
Is your uprising.

Incantation hones
The day’s intonation,
Dark sounds crucified
Upon a stave.

Time taunts
My spying ears
With wild harmonics,
Music of another man,
Not I.

The flute recalls me
To its tune,
The drum resounds,
Alive, alone.


3

Dark declensions of energy
Hollow me out,
Corpse left to the vultures
Of my mind…