Shadowed images crowd deep into him

releasing the engine of his drive;

rough breathing scrambles

onto walls of dreams where innocence

covers sin


His jazz is wind. A coursing of multiple

gusts turns heads while capturing idle thoughts.


He stirs under covers of

restless sleep. Nightmares call him by name.

A cutting moon drifts layers of silver over him.

He feels sound, echoes of song move

his lips.


Veils of memories, voices drying on the line

lift from the pillow. He breathes

youth. The ease of summer is full. Without regrets

music gives him her heart.




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