The Radio

The cafe is a lonely place
Less an environment thriving with activity
More a drab hall lying in social antiquity
With its bare walls and dim lights
The cafe is an empty space.

How did I get here, I wonder
Mulling over it with the depth it deserved
Staring into the dregs of my coffee mug
Its signature aroma carefully preserved

Suddenly, the radio scratches to life
Whispering memories from another time
When love meant something, sacred and pure
When the unknown gleamed with its hazy allure.
And Romanticism was in its prime.

The melody floats gently
A strain of notes drifting slowly
From the speakers to my heart
The time machine starts.

Music is a gateway to history even for my generation
The past holds us forever in a vice with no hint of amputation
Visions of ancient ideals induced lie beyond the actual song
Tapping into a part of the heart not yet strong

I see what was, in my own way
Emotions repressed by the stereotypes that constrict people
The conscious act of dominance between genders
The tenderness that lies within Man.
Maybe we haven’t evolved much.

The connection is weak,
It snaps almost immediately.
As if I was to be shown a trace
And then pulled back deliberately.

This intangible, unexplainable, unimaginable, incredible power…
What am I talking about again?
The past of music, maybe?
The cafe was a lonely place no more
I felt immersed in a dimension beyond the physical world
Is this deja vu, nostalgia, or something else?
(Like Season Six of Lost)

Suddenly, the radio scratches to life
Whispering memories from another time
When love meant something, sacred and pure
When the unknown gleamed with its hazy allure.
And Romanticism was in its prime.

(NaPoWriMo 2013 #27)

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