I Gotta Eat
As if the music had wings
but the notes dripped with tears.
Speaks of everything he's loved
and everything he fears.
His fingers, they dance,
Speak of torture and romance.
With a glance
from askance
frozen in stance
I'm enraptured .
I'm held in a trance.
He woos, he flows.
He creeps
longingly
through
your clothes.
Seeps in between
the cracks
that intervene
your toes.
He glides, he slides.
Trapped inside,
a wailing
to his woes.
He hides, he strides.
He desperately cries.
Can't quite find
what touches
he spies.
Deep inside
his mind.
In his eyes.
He frantically reaches.
Scarring and breaching
he searches for hope.
He seemingly beseeches
for a place
to elope.
With the bride of his pride
caged and prisoned .
Chain and torment.
Torrid dormant
deep inside.
What could I do,
wrapped so tight?
Everything hidden
from my sight.
It was lost and I was stranded.
I was implanted.
With a plague of placation.
Through the desperation
of temptation.
What would a person do
in a situation,
As this.
What would they surrender
to dismiss.
To submit to a purpose
different.
Something more
sufficient.
More elegant,
eloquent.
Without remiss
Without a miss
On the mark
of what's important.
What meets the quotient
of a life devoted,
of a life emoted.
With never thought of anything less
than explosive.
To search for truth. To search for truth. To search for truth.
To enjoy the spoof
of the truth
of all that is removed
and to intrude
deep
inside of you.
To expose the truth.
To search for you.
To push through.
To be you.
Just only To Be.
Just To Be
you.
-Angle Fatale-
-ode to the street musician
Copyright © Ryan Tyler | Year Posted 2017
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