The musician
never knows
the song
or the writer
the words
or the poet
the thought
the dream
that sinks
into the mind
of the listener,
on that cold
rainy night
or day of fear
when things
are brilliant
and love
is near,
in the most
private times
we turn to
the genius
of artists
in a fantasy
world, they
become our
when no one
else is around,
seeping into
the soul
looping in
the brain
the soundtrack
of our lives
words to live by
art to inspire,
they are skilled
ambitious, and
often for hire,
I wonder if
my admiration
is of any
when they
create the
rhythms of
the world,
probably not,
it’s about
the work,
the voice inside
the shining
of connection.


©J.W.WINSLOW 4/1/10