sudden crescendos

I sat down, lazily lifting the nearly empty mixture of gin and melting ice, raising the wrist to my dry lips for a last wet swig. I flipped through the list of songs, the pages and pages of professional singers, rendered in history with a meager collection of printed lines, each representing four minutes, more or less, of artistic expression, melodies traced in lyrical lines, marked for a time as something to sing to pass the time, to give meaning within a long drunken evening, wailing our hearts in explorations of feeling we’d passed, we’d noticed we’d heard, defining our hearts in sudden crescendos, along brittle lines of poetic descriptions, working our ways along paths of understanding, searching for traces of lost love.

Lord Malinov, Song of Songs

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About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet
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