Gold trimmed walls,
Ruby red drapes,
Hardwood floors.
A single microphone on stage,
An audience in anticipation.
The light catches the corner of the stage,
As white emerges with a touch of red.
The room is quiet,
Yet loud with excitement.
The band plays,
The beat is slow,
Synced with the heartbeat,
The music kisses everyone's ears.
Each person moves with another,
While the lone singer creates music.
The lights are dim,
Their eyes are bright,
A laugh and a smile,
A note and a wave.
The son plays on,
The crowd dances on.
Smoke rises from the bar,
The saxophone sends waves of melodies.
The creator steps and takes leave,
With a sweet sound in the air,
And a hard ground beneath feet,
Feeling the emotions and the sway of the room,
And the sense of being in time.
Steven Krauss-Akins ©2015
YOU ARE READING
POEMS for everything
PoetryA collection of poems from emotions to ideas and everything in between.
