Friday Night (Poem)

Rags and feathers,
African Mask,
shuffling across the street,
shambling through the crowds.

Finding its spot,
sitting cross-legged,
pulling an instrument from a knapsack.
Alto Saxophone.

Rag encased hands
run through tuning exercises.
Squeaks and squawks
rumble forth from the steel belly.

The music starts.
Empyrean sounds float through the ether,
drifting through side streets and boulevards
entrancing the city, as the world melts away.
People suspended in space by
the perfect music,
lost in a
kaleidoscopic daydream.

The music stops,
the notes fade,
the city awakens.

Rags and feathers,
African mask
has abandoned the thoroughfare,
escaped down the back streets,
returned home,
the skeleton without hearing or emotions
the maker of perfect music.

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About skyraftwanderer

A person who enjoys writing short story things, poetry and other random things that come into my head.
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