#natashaashwe

The guitar notes

are flames,

The soft,

deliberate strumming,

The flicks of fire

drumming on the wind,

The song,

a long burning stream, Scenes of

red and yellow rain,

A rising fever

drawing me in,

The chorus,

the darkness

set ablaze,

The guitar notes,

are rising,

Strings tuning,

Tongues turning,

winding on threads,

Reverberating, a swelling

consummation,

I'm awakening,

Shaken and stirred,

The song,

It's quickening my pulses into

response,

The tuning of force into

a flowing wind,

Sweeping now, whirling through me as

she plays.

Nostalgic Cuts

I hear old songs that remind me of bright rooms I've been in Clothing I've worn and bed cloths I've slept in Foods I have tasted and touches addictive Flooring and furniture; pleasing, offensive Colors and art form playing games with the senses Emotion a drama with see-through pretences I feel episodes of relationships in the changes of weather Lightning and darkening skies we walked under Slow days eagerly marked off the calender Fast cars that swore lives to end suddenly together Sunlight and night lights that lit up perception Time; the smoke mist lifts above all deception I go through the words spun around our existence Caught in the web of my mind by persistence Twisted and forged like keen tools to educate me Thoughts of new strangers projecting what things ought to be I stop in my tracks, stuck in the ruts Perhaps there is something I forgot to let go of? Chasms could fall open to spill out ghosts I love Had something been magical about past innocence? Was everything truly new and full of substance? I contact emotion, sink in nostalgic cuts Is an experience thriced or doubled somehow corrupted? Are lessons learnt over again dubiously adopted? With restless conviction I watch old scars and new incissions And will wait for another brought by time to pry open For wisdom is a practice, I am a surgeon in white gloves As I conquer every emotion, I conquer the world.