Musical Chairs

Somewhere a lost people send echoes of faded memory across the sea.

And they dance to the rhythm of the pain of time, fractured.

1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and

Step and

1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and




The rain, you said, reminds you of a time when you were young. When the entire world conspired to keep you shielded from itself and things seemed simpler. The rain, then, was not the sound of the impending power cut or a possible leak in the roof. Instead, it was the sound of the earth quenching a great thirst. And nothing feels better than relief.

It is in this way that you empathise with the earth when it rains. Parched grounds often look starve of the world’s selfcare. As if somehow rain is the world congratulating itself for a job well done.



These words that refuse to be written, or even thought of, were meant to be about something. However, this thing too, refuses to be written or thought of.

You wonder if this thing, like the parched ground, is in need of the attention of your selfcare.

(it’s still raining)



If music is capsuled memory, is it possible to overdose? If I popped six pills of music less than 24 hours would I need to have my ears pumped by a specialist? Would they send me for months of therapy asking where everything went wrong? Wondering how, after all the things that were given to me, I would still want to touch that which is just outside reach?



The rain, like music, only exists in cycles. The rain, like music, is nothing more but nature and history repeating itself. The rain, like music, has rhythm. The rain, like music, reminds you of a less complicated time. The rain, like music does not ask for permission.



This poem is not about rain.

Nor is it about music.

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