At Least it Lives

I dream of his soulful music,
Of him still creating,
Piano concertos,
Violin and piano duets,
Suites for a quartet.
A fugue for harpsichords,
Or partias for clarinets.
Variations, fusions, mixes,
New age, Classical,
Visions into probability.

Even if
They are not
Made by his hand,
At least it lives,
Possessed in figures
Behind keyboards
Pressed by fingers
Of various writers.

Ones less flashy
Others more.
Some bleeding
Like he had before.
Some healing.

But their knowledge
Of worlds connected by inseams
In their quest for cathartic release
Pulsating, gyrating
Convecting, transmuting
The quest in knowing
The adventure in living
The thirst for inspiring
The desire for change
The yearning of love
The warmth of encouragement
They have it
They read
They write it
With derelict duty.

So many words.
So many bodies.
Worlds colliding.

Isn’t it amazing
Isn’t it disgusting.

A different soul,
A different style,
The seemingly infinite stimuli that are encountered,
How many of them were pretty much the same,
In what ways did they differ,
What lesson was taught or learned,
In which order?
What observations were made,
What was something one held close,
While another thought made no difference?
What words hold semantic significance
So many variables spinning, spiraling,
So many variations,
But somehow,
Not so different.

But it simply
Isn’t the same.

They aren’t him.


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