Soul rhythms.

Sitting head bowed,
asleep, does not help
with the writing of this poem,
ideas have not dried up,
and words are certainly
agitating my fingers:
the sleep blocks progress,
but the music is welling up in me,
though I am not humming any melody,
but rhythms are moving my body.
Nothing is recognizable,
deep down though it
brings peace and harmony
and slowly these words
appear almost miraculously on the screen,
not taking away from the rhythms,
which have become more refined,
deeper in the soul,
and still the words come,
but maybe if I could
read, write, play and compose music,
then maybe I could turn to music,
compose and play
and slowly learn to leave all
the words to decay
in the depth of my being
and compose and play music
for the good of all.


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