Applauding with Finger Clicks

The wind blows unkind
and the breeze is hard with heat,
as I crawl across the concrete in search of words.
I am the equivalent of a moth orbiting an electric light bulb,
desiring the yellow but afraid of burning my feet.

I have no bathed lyrics,
no sun drenched ideas for contemplation.
I was never one of the lunatic fringe
mistaken for the whole lampshade.

I live in a world that is moving
so fast that morality can't keep up,
and I am just to tired
to pray in cardboard chapels.

My weathered cracks feel the cold
hiding in the soaring temperature.
All my passion has been wasted,
and I can no longer look at
my naked self
in the mirror

I am in a cycle where verse
is narrated in the distance,
and the door is closed upon
the weeping child.

So why, why, do I still hear music in the walls?

Bobbie Kilzer Gogain