What’s wrong with me? I keep hearing Chopin
in all my atmosphere. Within his notes
and silences I keep seeing you when
I close my eyes. Keep feeling you denote
the night – its essence of searching unknown
universes. Please understand. I’m not
listening to any instrument. One
with the dark and its mute subtle signet
of your spirit’s presence, I now behold
constellations of your face, your smiling
mouth singing Chopin’s nocturnes. If I told
you of your power, I’ve no doubt it’d sting
your senses, fuel your fears. So I’m silent,
lying alone. But the Muse is content.
Roger Armbrust
December 23, 2015
