Lub Dub

I’m feeling a pulse
but throbs.
Pressure against arterial walls
that have unfortunately closed up. A reaction to
blue tunes played on my weeping guitar.
This pulse is
but,again, throbs.

at sight of puddle of leaves bathing in sunlight, refracting spectrum into red orange purple and yellow

at sound of dissonant notes that make up ambiguity and lust of jazz

at the feel of prickles and tingling the winds send through hair-standing and goose-bumping arms

at the maturation of gold in oven, roasted peanuts swimming in a sea of steaming honey

Pulse is faint,
still life is fresh.

I search for my pulse every morning
some times faint, others none at all
but I make it throb
I choose to talk, choose to throb, throb like
my pumping heart
on days that are rough.

When I smell colors, wonder, and peanuts in the oven
Pulse is like a throbbing drum.


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