A t m o s p h e r e s
 


Then,
When the hum of the city
Rode the back of the breeze
In the dead of the night.

There,
A vacuum that swallows
Every last aching breath,
Muting all your cries.

Where,
A passing stare syncopates poise,
Throwing your spirit off course,
To the edge of a bottomless fall.

What,
Emerges out of nothing
To fill a space with a fragment
Of creative truth.

Now,
When the air is cool enough
To tickle the hairs on your skin
In tenderly spin.

Here,
In a moment of synthesis
Between psyches so intense
That for a second they merge.

How,
Eyes spill from a dreaming scene,
Screaming with the force
Of a mothers scream.

When,
The sound of a note
Plays with your head so much
You canít think straight.

 

Written: 24th June 1995
Copyright Nicholas Treadwell 2001