Only a little too late,
to hear the cry of the clarinet,
have my heart beat in sync with the bass,
emotions match the call of brass,
or so be serenaded by the sweet, seductive hum of the saxophone.
To be around my own kind,
dance among my elders,
with my ancestors,
hear the hiss of radio static,
only distracting enough to hear the quality of the sound.
But I'm stuck in a time where yelling is music,
rhythm is an electronic bass,
love is portrayed as being instant and disposable,
children not being able to tell the difference between two instruments.
a dead emotion,
a dead language,
used to pass time in elevators in the space between two strangers-
instead of the song heard during a young couple's first dance.
I suppose it had its run...
but why did it have to sprint?
I suppose new culture should have its turn in the spotlight,
but it's still upsetting..
I was only a century too late.