Sometimes what we do

Sometimes what we do

And how we feel

Fits with how we see ourselves

What we are is an extension of

What we think.

And where we wake up

Is just where it ought to be.

The right place,

Space and time.

Music floats on the air

A sound that tracks

The rhythm of life.

A tune that plays on

As whole lives unfold.

An accompaniment

To the poetry of conversation

As the day evolves

With the grace of a ballet.

It acts as counterpoint,

When every movement

Is a song

We choose to live by.

And yet sometimes

Out of the blue

And never invited,

There are mornings

With different meanings,

When music jangles.

It scrapes and jibes

At the edges

Which over night

Have grown everywhere.

Your body does not fit.

It juts out at

All the wrong angles.

Raw and ill-defined.

Jagged and angular

Sometimes it is dumpy,

Bloated and round

Or flaccid and worn

Like a deflated tyre

With no bounce or spring

No sense of life

Or music to sing.

Just a squeak and series of beeps,

A piercing whistle like tinnitus

That drowns out voices

And leaves you

Subject to alienation,

Internal isolation

Social constipation.

How can such

A strange thing occur

Over night.

When yesterday,

Everything

You saw felt and touched,

Was never too much

But instead,

Before going to bed,

Was in some way,

Just right.