Eremite

         Somewhere lost  in wilderness, in the thicknesses of the forest, there lives an old man who plays a pan-flute in a way that no other can.  His tunes are often lonely, for there are none to hear of the somber song as it drifts across the land.

         Notes float past the trees and creatures, dancing through the breeze, but no-one hears the sadness that his music ever bleeds.

         So he sits alone on a branch, one much too high to see.  Lost in the moment he drifts far away on the wings of forlorn melody.   Caught forever in the blissful tether of a soulful remedy.  

         That is,  until time has come and his notes begin to fade.   When his body will wither and the trees softly whisper of the songs that he once played.

Author's Note

another from a few old pieces. I've always pondered the changes I would make to this, but the rawness and lack of refinement in some ways is a satisfying testimony, so I can never bring myself to change it.