Music

Guitar memories, like the moon that has forsaken the sky, and now there has to be something to pick on, and my mandolin and my bodhran, gazing at my musicality, and the stack of harmonicas, lying in their place, and the keyboards, bored with me, but words, and their music, accompany and the music lies within their feeling, and the search within, for the good, the musical good, for that for me, is what music is, suggesting of love, or at least the goodness, of the soul, and so you let it lie, you let it rest, and then it won't let you let it lie, nor let you rest, and it seeps into your conscience, and in its beauty assaults you, there are no words to speak, and the time just doesn't matter anymore, and it doesn't register, and you are in a place now, oblivious of it, and now you are lateral to the music, and the beauty, escaping into a self created dimness, and then suddenly, you discover that the moon hasn't deserted the sky, and you awaken, and you realise, and you understand, and you see the reason for your existance, the reason for now, and your place within this now, and then I pick up my guitar once again, play a friend, that I once had written, take it into myself again, and give it love of the present.