a poem about making music

Mid-40s, playing guitar

 

Dissonance and distortion hid subtlety
And, subtly, dissonance and distortion hid
I got old, and I believed I would
But did not feel it until it happened
Music roams

  home roams never to mine
Now I have no sound other than
  what the sound is
    of passing time

 

about the battle rhythm

Another dead-inside Monday morning wiggles greasily, greasy into the house and fills it with humid, permanent light. The light shows me what it will be like when my skin is ashen and I'm old and I smell of it.