Unheard Music

We were in the room next door,
the one that, 
                     when you enter, 
                                                you suddenly 
find yourself below ground, 
looking at the feet 
of passers-by on the street
but you don't worry about that,
about how you have found yourself here.
You don't think about how it doesn't 
make sense because it does 
at the time.

In that moment its dark energy rings truer 
than the dark.  It's dark and dingy like you 
imagine a bar in a building’s basement should be.
It has been abandoned,
raided and forgotten
with still uneasily spoken 
spirits that might be raised.

Eighty years ago
a thick layer of light brown 
dust settled, coating everything,
taking the room and everything in it 
and turning them in tones of sepia
with the sounds of the street coming 
filtered through dirty glass
disturbing nothing.

There is music that comes and goes,
music that no one is listening to anymore,
faded laughter like lost loves and stale cigarettes,
like slowly yellowing paper (we can see it turn
before us, we watch it happen there on the window sill,
the paper curls and crumbles).
Shadows pass and the passers feet 
become the passing of the light.

From the room, a quick, lonely movement 
catches in the corner of the eye like a cobweb
that you can not squeeze out.

The room can not decide which floor it wants to be
so it becomes the floor, and you are

flattened along with it.  You have 
become a shadow of who you are,
your own shadow that you step on.

This is a time when I was alone.
This is a place I have been before.
This is a time when I was not afraid
of any thing or any one
but of time's not passing,
of dead flies that have stopped 
accumulating in the windows.

4 thoughts on “Unheard Music

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