Dirty Floors

Brew, slung across a crowd from a plastic cup,

as Echo & The Bunnymen sway and crone on stage.

High hair, and black silhouettes.

Stilettos and anxious hollers.

Torn fishnets and sticky floors.

Blinding lights,

smoke machines,

stolen smoke breaks,

and a thundering bass.

I watch as an older gentlemen in the front row holds up his palm to the guitarists, during his solo.

These are the memories I will remember,

not the petty-mundane events that transpired moments before.

Music is the life blood,

and this is true evidence of it.

The way it entrances a soul,

and makes one forget all the unimportant events that transpire.