an old rhythm

an old rhythm plays, on the edge of the mind

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the thoughts heaped up …like lots and lots of rusty old keys…tied up for long in the old cloth bag with musty smell of pickled monsoons tightly tied up with the frayed double knotted string

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an old rhythm plays on the edge of the mind

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the keys are heavy, rusty, some sticky, some smooth, some rough…they learn to breathe again as your whispers seep through the string and the folds and the fabric….bring in the scent of the dance and music from so far away…reaching inside riding the waves set off as you move your body to the sensuous beat

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an old rhythm plays, on the edge of the mind

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the fingers fumble at the knot, pretend to play with the breeze and return opening the belly button, releasing the trapped scent of damp forests firing up the blood hounds chasing the playful little rabbit hidden deep in the burrow

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an old rhythm plays, on the edge of the mind

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and spreads slowly swirling about from the far dark edges to the toe and all other tips and pores…ready to dissolve the layers of dried onion skins and almost touch the core

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an old rhythm plays, on the edge of the mind

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the keys clamor loud as the heart rolls in the empty tin box….and slowly fall silent as the music fades..falling in a heap again in the old old old bag

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but the old rhythms plays on, on the edge and beyond the mind

:)