Sometimes it's hard to know what to do.
It's like losing your place in the music.
The music doesn't stop:
If you miss your entrance,
you take your lumps in silence
and join in where you can.
"Could we please take it from the top?"
you plead, but the music goes on,
its only concession being
to incorporate into itself
(perhaps a tremulous violin
counterpointed against sneering clarinet)
the sub-theme of your pleading.
by Dean Blehert
poem a day
This is just poetry. It won't save you, but it may locate you so that a rescue party can be sent out. — Dean Blehert
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