Fifty-Five Years Gone
by Michael Doyle

From crayons to my sister's perfume,
I was lost deep inside the White Room.
Things of death made me feel fear,
And I needed another atmosphere.

I lost myself on memory lane,
Half convinced that life slips down the drain.
Looking for my way out,
While others looked to twist their shout.

We only had to find it.
It didn't matter if it hit.
We held music to be somewhat reverent,
As long as it said something different.

AM radio's wasteland left me unimpressed,
While FM was my soul fully expressed.
I wasn't interested in the 45s DJ way,
At least not compared to stereo long play.

Everything was down to experiment,
Players derived kicks from their musical variant.
As if the fortune had been read,
There was something new to be said.

We only had to find it.
It didn't matter if it hit.
We held music to be somewhat reverent,
As long as it said something different.

The Autumn leaves were already falling,
When a new opportunity came calling.
From the closing door came a new beginning.
The adventure of music is never-ending. 

New ways of feeling sound came from deep inside,
Like the cry of a wild animal or maybe wounded pride.
Shamen and madmen sometimes feel the call, 
As across the spotlighted stage they'd crawl.

We only had to find it.
It didn't matter if it hit.
We held music to be somewhat reverent,
As long as it said something different.

(c) September 8, 2025   Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved