Photo by ancasta1901
Slowly, poured out of the blind carafe,
like honey for our ears.
You intoxicate every cell of me.
Are you shaped to hold
the viscous music filling
us up ever so slowly?
Almost off beat, almost the same rhythm,
almost perfectly in sync with the bass in between.
We are syrup being poured out
from the composers metronoming fingertips.
We endlessly crash with each other,
making our own music,
creating our rhythm
as we reach our destination,
that narrow death at the bottom.
But it isn’t about filling the same space.
Its about the ride down, free falling.
We are the new instruments to this old pace.
Our capillaries flush to our flesh to feel the bass.
Bated breath, much like us.
They rush back to the heart,
as he drums his own beat,
to take another deep breath,
so they can rush to the fingertips
of my hand. Placed on you manifests slow, gooey, jellylike
visible vibration through you; like a bell just rung.
You produce beautiful tunes,
and feels like an eternity nears as the sounds
reach our ears when it expels out of us.
There is no mast nor bow sturdy enough
to keep me from this melody.
My senses daze.
My eyes can hear the candlelight
Dripping off your bare body.
My skin can taste your lips,
The closet it can get to a kiss back.
(1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 5)Fresh Heaven Poems Versatile Imagination Poems Knowledgeable take on Music
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