Everything is dull whenever the record stops.
There is a recluse she cherishes that fades away into nothingness,
She claims there is someone in the music.
A man of undecided wrath and sensual flares.
He wears a sumptuous crown; a velvet curtain upon his eyes.
When the record starts to play he rises.
The melody is his breath; haunting his touch.
He holds her by her tender ways,
And serenades her with gracious promptness.
His eyes, she says, are afire with depth
And she longs to burn in them; she wants to wade in the ashes that result,
And feel the turbulent barrage of his abundant chivalry.
When the music plays, the majestic spectre sets in,
And pick her up.
From the brushes of her submissiveness is rekindled immortal fairness.
She dances on a platform made of his glare and slips upon his eager and ready lips.
He strums her; spectacular chords.
He reels around her: sweet fainting keys.
And his heartbeats are a raging drum roll.
By Tonny Wandella