His long, curly, ruffled hair
would sway to his tabla-beat.
Drama lingered in the air-
I, on the edge of my seat.
His thick brows danced up and down,
music shone in those owl eyes.
Ears attuned to any sound,
fingers played ballet on ice.
I ask - is he really gone?
his rhythms echo, play on.
No comments:
Post a Comment