Somewhere in the night, a flute plays,
sad and slow,
it echoes through the darkness,
a mystery, A bittersweet tune
full of memories you feel more than know.
The flute plays. Impossible music.
It should not be here, here in the wilderness
you call home.
This is a place of wild things and emptiness,
where your soul lingers safe from predators
and emotion, a sanctuary
from the pain of your broken past.
It should not be here.
You do not know who could be playing it,
or where, or why.
Demons perhaps, or angels, or perhaps
it is night magic, one disguised as another,
memories taught somehow,
About this poem
Last night some wild animal was crying out. It was a pitiful, squally, nasty, raw cry that went on and on. Somehow, that became this poem.
The human mind is a strange thing.