The emptiness invades
all the compliments
after the music stops.
It was during the music
hearts connected,
pulses pounded and
we would have sold
our children to be part.

But now, after,
it is all very polite;
we have lost the instant.

Words fly like moths
against a summer screen.
The moon has risen
the audience moves
to comfortable ground.

Looks like rain.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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