His dormancy was a judgement call

That they made but

It doesn’t account for, at all,

The light in his eyes when he starts playing.

The flourishes, the unnecessary twirls, the eloquent style.

The music surging and spilling,

Filling up the ether.

Soaking the barriers between the dream-world

and this.

While I watched, transfixed,

By the irresistibility of it all.

The gorgeousness of his time,

Like flickering embers, overwhelmingly riveting.

Reeling itself, reeling in me,

Until it reached the end of the reel.

The end of it,

When the music and movement ceased.

Subtly, everything shifted

Just a little bit,

And that light at the end of his tunnelled vision

That I am so sure was a blazing bonfire

Is already smuggled away

Invisible to all, including him.

Like desert snowstorms, disconcerting,

But existing.

Brought forth again,

The next time he starts playing.

(A/N: I find it hard to write without feeling something – I haven’t written in months. A song I resonate with is Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb.)


One thought on “Misjudged

  1. When you feel it, it flows, incessantly like a tide that won’t ebb. Follow your natural tides.
    It will come back, and this time think of happier thoughts- I will wait to see your smile through your poetry ❤️


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