With all muses silent
and all musing ceased
I release my soul.

Take me down where songs are found.

Getting Older

Songs don't have ends any more.
They meld and grow,
and wrap around the radio.
The eq is flat;
the announcer's spat
is don't change the dial.

The hair on my arm is still.
Lays straight and fine,
Void of the tell and the sign.
I miss the days,
the power and praise
of writer and his chord.