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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I flip the history of Bojangles On a cool Sunday evening Los Angeles coming down A flow of oboes breathing Through the lung of the street The hobo not stopping for air Fingers moving in a dance Across the strings of consciousness Milking the music of his brain Onto a breast Of dilated ears. Mr. Lopez, unsettled from his comfortable chair Searching for something to tell Against the neon of despair Heard the dulcimer quelling hell And saw himself standing bare To the sheetless eyes Of a man serenading Beethoven Deaf as a statue In the city's superfluous air. Here is where humanity Sings hope amidst the garden Of hopelessness That make direlict dreams Tugging our divinity Down to rags of nothingness. Mr. Ayers, a quaver away Juliard school in love aspiring Suddenly there fallen Amidst the glitter and glamor Of non-existence Peace, a basoon Seducing a Los Angeles moon Coy as a lover In the tangle of wine memory He plays against The unkown sorrow of the world. And here dedication Drives us to distraction Soon or late Decomposing our minds Into shards of glistening memories. Discovery, today beholding yesterday A bride for the first time Amidst the silence of flowers Cradling weeds and seeds of tomorrow. Love without purpose Can change the course Of splintering history. He plays, harmony In where the traffic blares Yellow light onto his gray matter Splitting airs with sharp sounds They echo Not the common pit, nor To a single Maestro blending The mind's kaleidoscope Before the other's saner wit Along highways and wind tunnels He brings to a sombre note To ode all joys Strugling repressed under Human ambition Ayers is my minstrel Jarred by a nerve Not wired for sleep. Fortune smiles From the frontier of friendhsips Fondled by the music Of love unfranchised Awakes the lyre To sing in the resurrection of desire. Friendship is a sheltering tree From life's base tragedies.
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