A cool Sunday morning, wearing old brown slippers and warm bedclothes.
Looking through my window, and hearing crows singing, I suppose.
Sitting here on borrowed chairs, at a homemade table, built by dad.
Listening to my music of sorrow, ballads of truth, voices humming so sad.
The tunes vibrating softly, from my brothers equipment, quietly in tempo with my pulse.
Staring at the tall wooden bookcase, displaying visions from my deepest vaults.
The dusty shelves, lined with personal photos, whom I’ve lost and found over the years.
Mostly pictures of her, now departed for a while, always engulfing my many fears.
And images of family and friends, but they’re all smiling as if nothings wrong.
Oh how we mysteriously grin, for that camera pointed at our souls of song.
There’s memorabilia, and her little trinkets, all reflecting on my hidden veneer.
And unopened dry red wines, dotting the racks, like mirrors of yesteryear.