The Gig


Tremble and bass,
Fate to fate,
The thud of the drums,
Booming their way,
Rock the place,
Screaming the voice off his face,
Free to a rhythm we all understand,
But he lives it every stage to stage.
 
Under those strobe lights,
World fades away,
There’s a certain thrill to a chase,
And those beaming faces lead the way.
 
It’s the road that runs along,
Few miles or yard,
Turning back to home,
But there’s still a thirst of a heady rush,
And he gets it on that stage.

 ©flyingonemptythoughts


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