The Busker

"If music be the food of love, play on." - William Shakespeare

The busker sits against the wall,
A little hat at his feet.
It is a busy day, heaving,
As he faces into the heat
Of the Spanish plume above,
Weighing heavy over his denim-clad chest.
Still, the smiling chap plays on,
This noise, this poise crafting his best.

He strums out his simple tunes
For a penny or two, he asks no more
Of the passers-by who turns their heads
From his misplaced allure.
Conviction comes from his lungs
And passion pours from his eyes.
Lyricism drifts from his mouth
And he soars. He flies.

The music man is an oracle,
Profanes with his unworthiest hand
And makes sweet melody to his love.
The chords echo in this bustling land;
No one hears him
But he is not singing for the crowd.
I pay him not a penny, but my time
To his heart, beating out, beating loud.

Second Sight

Little-known fact - owls are far-sighted and his struggle to clearly see things that are close and otherwise obvious.

The drums herald a newfound track;
One million straws upon his back,
He pushes on and grinds his feet -
Something calls to him within this newfound beat.

The path ones, so dim and dark,
Without bright light, so coldly stark
From he clarity of the past.
Watch out, dear Monkey, beat moves fast.

Beat moves fast. Beat moves fast. Beat moves -
It stops. The path ends here, and here proves
Uncharted - these unknown bounds
Are bordered by shrill animal sounds.

Darkness fades in such a manner
That the Monkey is lost amidst the clamour -
The path has ended. The crescendo peaks;
The silence beckons, one voice speaks.

It does not matter what he says,
But what he does lays all else to rest.
The Wise Owl casts into shadow
The straws that were once a hallow.

He flies, not above me, but with me,
The past shrillness becoming symphony.
The path remains dark, but with each step on this night
The Wise Owl is my second sight.