The crowd, a mass of willing flesh,

absorb the fire of his sound.

Their greed is unsatisfied, unquenched,

burning with the blood of dance;

it warms cool air.


The man with great voice tastes his words,

releasing thoughts from corners and

shadows, spreading the jazz, bandaging

the hurt in the crowd.


Passionate flames of night drip like

frontons weeping from a days passing sun,

as hands gather the mood of night

into a basket full of fallen stars.






Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s