Arias

It must be the music,
That makes me wade through the night,
It must be those three chords,
Making me want to live through
Just another flea infested day.

There are more compelling reasons,
I ponder sometimes;
When my eyes meet hers’,
Or when the same thought
Slips out of two pairs of lips,
At the same time.

It must be the gamble
Of private messages,
That lay suspended in the air
Till someone else comes along,
And pollutes those unsaid words,
With self indulgent presumptions.

It must be the hope,
That little inevitable spark of hope,
Even when the night mumbles
That some things are just
Not meant to be.

Or probably it must be faith,
Who lends wings
On a 10 minute trial basis,
And plucks on feathers,
When you fall off that precious edge.

The night, the night!
She sings arias and puffs her worries,
The smell of her hair lingers
On cheap black plastic and steel,
And hopefully soon,
On my pillow.

Ah the night,
Think I will credit her,
For seeing me through,
Just another day.