What is the point in making music
When your favorite song will
Always be the one your Mother sang to you
Before you learned to speak.
The one you can only remember
In the moments between
Sleep and Waking.
It drifts down the hall just before
You open your heavy eyelids (or maybe
Just to weary from those
Fascinating dreams), but it's
Footsteps are already too,
Too faint to follow.
Silly Me,
I leapt from your bed to give chase,
The Jealous Lover,
To confront my rival, sink my teeth into it's neck,
Wrestle the air from it's lungs.
But the hall was empty,
The trail Cold.
I return to bed, dejected,
To await it's next haunting.
You smile as I get under the covers.
Me, fuming with an un-satiated
Thirst for Blood,
You,
Softly humming to yourself.
(..........................)
How can I compete with that?