Rediscovered Ditty

Just when I began to believe

there was nothing left in the tank,

That the rhymes were bland,

chord progressions uninspired,

As if ever more than a layman’s effort,

Like a self-proclaimed bricklayer,

who only builds with cinderblock,

In a picture file I stumble upon a forgotten recording,

(No wonder it was forgotten, not a voice memo,

it was a video shot from an end table

capturing the inside of a lamp shade)

Nothing complete, and really nothing special,

Just different, deeper, soulful, with potential,

Something to ponder, something to mold,

something to sculpt, something new – not old

Build a fire, pick up the chisel,

let down your guard, mix paint on the easel,

It’s time for inside work,

But to make it happen,

It has to be released

From inside the imagination.

A stranger, in first person,

A meeting, a thought, a line,

an offer, two pairs of lips combined,

Well-defended yet unavoidable,

Tantalizingly irresistible,

Destructive self-foreshadowing,

At heaven he looks up toward:

“Another sin I can’t afford.”

 

© 2016

 

 

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