I wear your music in my ears,
tipped upon my taste buds,
smoke curled and curdled,
distance hurdled by the sense of light.

Envisioning your mirror dance
to tunes heard only in my head,
a rumpled bed a close accompaniment,
despite the winter coldness in the room.

Plaintive, sweet, and near archaic sounds
are filtered by my cage,
my age and hearing not near where it was,
I mimic volumes absolute to stress my ears,
the way your image now appears to me.

Strange Child, eclectic taste becomes the
vision that I hold,
‘cause words alone,
however bold,
are never near enough to see
you as you hear yourself.

03/09/2008

Author's Note: To paraphrase Kurt Vonnegut; "People should write poetry to one another."

Posted on 03/09/2008
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers