love lies in those beheld,
and with it, you also find love.
it exists in the insignificant;
in the gentle grinding of the mallet
on metal keys, in the incessant
rumbling of wood on the carpet,
in the glistening sweat beaded
on drumsticks and the bleary-eyed
stares at those scores with
just-too-many-notes-and-rests to count.
it lies hidden in the musty scent
of the paths walked by generations,
the residue warmth and comfort
remains dormant in its essence -
in the conjoining of scrapes and blisters,
in the aching wrists and forearms,
walking hand-in-sticks through the hellfire
suddenly makes me realise that
in the places where the light is naught
and the shadows deepen its reach,
a glimmer of hope lay in that semicircle,
where only through the loving of others
can one learn to love oneself, at all
