Poem, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

The moment.

I sit here with drink in hand and verse in mind.

So it rolls around as drums beat their rhythm in far off places not heard directly but known and felt within.

That beat is so hypnotic, and drink so eager to please, and off I hum to simple cause.

As though life was but a song but passing by.

What lyrics it might it matters not. The words are gone already. Drowned out by drum and and sweetest sound yet gone, yet to be heard.

I had hoped for silence but silence gave not music to be heard, nor ale to be drank.

But oh for this sweetest sound.

And on life goes, a day, a night, a week or more, on it rolls without a care.

An immortal awaiting the end to mortal life, one moment at a time. One year, one one generation.

One can only hope to mark with a crooked x the spot which those immortals cannot forget.

A mark which stood together with beat and rhythm to say that this was the moment where it was more than just a song or passing time.

This was the moment which mattered.

Even though it was filled with drink and silence.

On rolls the rhythm, on rolls the sound.