The old man sits
In his rocking chair,
Wondering at fate.
He was a dancer,
An acrobat, darling
Of the wandering folk.
He’s not forgotten them,
Still tapping his fingers
To a beat in his mind
That played so long ago.
That the musicians
Are all gone,
If he’s the only one left who remembers
So he whistles alone
Along the dusty corridors
Between cobwebbed rooms,
With Ill-used feet,
In this forgotten place, in dreams,
He can almost remember
What those summer evenings
I’m putting all this up for the love of writing and your enjoyment, and if you would like to use it for your own purposes that would be awesome. However, it’s my writing, and I must ask you to ask me first, and credit me (obviously). Also, if you do I’d really love to see/hear/watch it!
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I’ve also done recordings of several of my poems and stories, which are available on soundcloud here
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Lots of love,