Syncopated Anticipation
by Michael Doyle

The music, any music, has its own flow,
Leaving behind the day as we dance.
We enjoy the moments as these flow,
As if inside a fluid sense of trance.

The audience is part of the show.
The thunder roars across the road.
We share a laugh as if we know,
Maybe it is a mystery that didn't need told.

Sleeping sitting up as the day goes,
Somewhere into the nether world of shadows.
These were the rituals of transference
That breaks our way, despite its appearance.

Despite the days that seamlessly roll on,
No one ever really dies if their memories go on.
Our hearts are revealed in every audible line;
Music caresses our ears like a forever Valentine.

I look into the loneliness of the night,
Wondering if tomorrow will be all right.
My soul has peeled away into the darkness,
No longer able to hold back life's harshness.

No one writes the diary of the endless road,
Except page by page, it cannot be foretold. 
There's bound to be a nightly miracle displayed.
If you listen closely, you'll hear it in every note played.

Tapped into the gospel's not-so-hidden slipstream,
Its improvisation becomes our fulfilled dream.
Everyone's moments spill into bringing pause,
As hot jazz slides past its own regal laws.

We never know past the contrarian fascination,
How it will come out beyond the syncopation.
Approached with madness and deliberation,
The sum of all parts is felt with dedication.

(c) September 4, 2025   Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved