Like a major second in Mozart’s quartet,
or a tango dancing Parisian Musette;
the unbidden visit of the summer sun,
a world had risen from Escher’s mind.
Home is not where home resides,
for dreams are but short-lived delights;
paralysed by this limbo I face,
awake in a play on this pathetic stage.
My day has no complaints,
only good things has come of it;
was I not flamboyant,
with treasures from the summit?
Yet a lack is somewhere hiding,
twisting my spine from within;
even this old jazz tune on the piano,
feels not quite like what I used to know.
To my music have I returned,
again my dear rosewood has sang;
with melodic minors she turned,
into a rather broken-hearted song.
Is it my longing for clarity?
Light I have yearned to trace,
yet I dare not my pencils raise,
for fear of losing my lucidity.
