Modulation

Riding the waves,

Not as a beach,

As the ever-varying heights,

Tsunamis in thunderstorms and cloudless nights,

Waves lifted and slammed by black field’s lily,

To be rested by a city’s square,

Switching in between the quiet and the loud.

It’s all the same; endless as the motion,

Read only in paintings of poetry.

Sitting on the words,

Not as those that have left mouths empty as the caves they are,

But the words that are said in cluttered booths,

Spat into metal sponges,

To be squeezed into throaty ears,

To be squeezed from the heart when funnels cannot be reached.

Hanging onto each note,

Unlike those written by people known,

These seem more personal,

A brick in the pavement,

For the wise and unwise to visit,

Initials carved into each one via texts and letters.

Holding on to the seconds that pass as the people thought of,

Duck below the speed limit signs,

The traffic waiting behind belongs to me,       

as are the people who speed over - meeting at red lights,

I am whomever the lyrics say I am.

Walking through life with the tempo of the endless queue.

Without whoever told me how to walk it.