Poetry by Keira Fulton-Lees

The Vinyl Pressure

Obedient to measure, I try .

There’s just something unreachable about music that washes waves of intensity over me. Into me and through me I cannot find the words to yield the true meaning. Obedient, to measure, I try – Under Pressure.

Colliding memories of moments in time arrive innocent of the weight of years before them. In early days but a tiny diamond follows a circular dark path. Gracefully, weighted, it presses down – Under Pressure.

It’s speed steadily maintained in pairs of threes that grow ever tighter moving slowly with such ease. Each pass drawn inward as the tones touch the inner being of my crackled soul. Spellbound, I lie with cooling fanned face – Under Pressure.

While at once it seems both in unison and so close yet still in a muraled state of random. Upon a prism of coloured staff metered in quarters, wholes, and halves. Triumphantly, a blending begins – Under Pressure.

A s when walking alone in the crisp cold air of a desolate field resounds the new fallen snow. Crunching impressions left fresh the imprint of human foot firmly placed down. Effortlessly, echoes a new sound – Under Pressure.

Anticipation at its peak as the jewel glides upon each turn Rhythmically resonates your soul as intensely it shakes you to the core. Enthralled, if but to give a single word – Under Pressure.

But it is that certain inexplicable feeling you get when someone you love leans in close. So close that time does then cease, and they give you that look where only they can. Finally, your world truly is only then – Without Pressure.