Friday, March 5, 2010

What Might

I sit and listen with my imperfect ears
The music recalls all the imperfect years.
The mountains of sound rise in their majesty
To waterfall back in to obscurity.

Dreams dreamed through the many years of frustration
Fear that the talents endowed at formation
Went unused or abused as the path opened
And allowed to slip away unheralded.

Thoughts and emotions evoked from the dim past,
Beauty and good developed, but not to last.
Fleeting insights, intellect too seldom tested
Moments of near brilliance soon arrested.

The strains evolved by some long dead composer
Able to stir the depths quiescent, dormant.
Words written by some bygone obscure author
Striking an intoxicant chord, resplendent.

If only the beckoning gesture had been
Recognized, what worlds might have been sounded.
If only the unseeing eyes could have seen
What epiphanies, what thought been propounded.

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