Awe, Teabag is getting so old. Love ya G.
Music strokes a memory cord.
The mind, the mind...is where we hoard;
a box of flashbacks, stories told.
Inside the notes often holds;
a chime, note, pitch or sound;
can bring a world crashing down.
A miracle a sound can be,
entire lifetimes surface to see.
Sunlight streaming, uncannily so.
A melody can have a glow;
like a single capsule of time,
stung together in mind's rhyme.