n o w, being the person I am, I have completely deleted everything in my old journal and have begun a new one. Yes, I know I give up too much. The two poems I had up-- Single Rose and the Whole of the Abyss-- are under editing. When I have finished them, I will repost them up here. In the meantime, welcome to the Minor Chord <span id="test27900223">. . .</span><br/><div id="post27900223" style="display:none; margin-right:75px;">
You stumbled across the building on another walk through the city-- there have always been so many sights to see, from Broadway to Times Square... The lights are brighter than any neon elsewhere, the smells richer than anywhere other than here-- New York City!
It was in a back alley, but a curtained window and a closed door with an open sign stapled upon its peeling wood. A rhythm seeped from the crack under the doorway, enticing you, dancing around, seducing you until you opened the door. A slow, living jazz beated from the front of the room, a deep inhale of coffee twisting in and out in warm twists of oozing steam. Upon the stage with the band was a lonely grand piano, waiting for its rightful owner.
A table, laid for one with a vase filled with fresh white roses, daisies and a creamy flower you'd never before seen sat in the center of the room, isolated. It shone under a dim spotlight, the only table not occupied by silently listening people dressed in shimmery, silken gowns; smooth suits... You took your seat at the table as a slow new harmony rang out of the music, sorrowful, almost, provoking tears and memories long forgotten.
Welcome... to the Minor Chord.
</div>You stumbled across the building on another walk through the city-- there have always been so many sights to see, from Broadway to Times Square... The lights are brighter than any neon elsewhere, the smells richer than anywhere other than here-- New York City!
It was in a back alley, but a curtained window and a closed door with an open sign stapled upon its peeling wood. A rhythm seeped from the crack under the doorway, enticing you, dancing around, seducing you until you opened the door. A slow, living jazz beated from the front of the room, a deep inhale of coffee twisting in and out in warm twists of oozing steam. Upon the stage with the band was a lonely grand piano, waiting for its rightful owner.
A table, laid for one with a vase filled with fresh white roses, daisies and a creamy flower you'd never before seen sat in the center of the room, isolated. It shone under a dim spotlight, the only table not occupied by silently listening people dressed in shimmery, silken gowns; smooth suits... You took your seat at the table as a slow new harmony rang out of the music, sorrowful, almost, provoking tears and memories long forgotten.
Welcome... to the Minor Chord.
