Sigh! Lovely things buried inside.
his voice, it is mixing with music.
guitar lures me too deep.
Closed eyes smile, weep.
Voice is gold plated
replete with sense
tied to the pain
glaring vague lens.
The music flows,
then spin, spin around him.
tying knots to his hand.
water rising up the knee.
he breathes his songs in
his stainless steel lungs, they burn.
he laughs- "who cares what to win".
his stainless steel lungs - dry, done.
And the film rolls
credits in bold.
A head with a radio
as music play cold.
But I am listening still.
Poet's Note : Currently listening to Radiohead music... B-E-A-UTIFUL!
