Q u i d a m

Strange, music hall

Life's music is strange in hollow crowd, 

To monetize, or simply taking the chord of piano—

You're humming every very tune of phase, 

Happy, sad, remorse, appreciation in drum rolls

set apart, I only see breadcrumbs in the road. 

Two dogs fighting over quantity, others taking time

to join in the heated breeze. 

I was walking down through a journey,

flipping the pages after pages, the music runs 

in a slow tempo now, until someone shut

and shouted, "It's done!" before I could read it. 

Anonymous people running, chasing, catching—

But where? Vessels to future mapping, making

sun rays seeping, through blank pages.

All I can say to look for your step, "Dear pedestrian

where is your raincoat?"

The universe is silent, all music died:

Let's just say, tuning right into the right step—

How lucrative the illustration of light seems! 

Hope rubs in blankets, pressed a thought aside

in twinkling verge, I found one page.

Written in hurry inks, 

looking smeared, before the world does. 

. . .