image from paintingvalley.com
This poem was written in remembrance of my younger brother, Eddie Etgen. His drums were silenced too early, but the reasons he drummed were the same....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ out of the blue, a figure appears a relic of the past, an old drummer, worn and gray old drummer's heart still full of fire his hands, still nimble, find their way the park's stillness shattered by sound as his drums and cymbals awaken he beats and pounds, his passion pours the music flows from his soul park's inhabitants gather ‘round, a curious throng entranced by his wild, rhythmic song the rhythm weaves a spell, a hypnotic trance the old drummer's music, a moment’s magic his drums transports, transforms, and transcends, a bridge spanning his years connecting past and present, his laughter, sorrow, and tears in this fleeting instant, his world is set right he finishes, his drums grow still the park is silent, but music remains a lingering echo, old drummer's regrets and soulful refrains
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