Those synths wailed on and you,
merely eight Earthly years,
would dance and hum,
always glad when advertisements
somehow shone in your favour.

This banking craze,
the hole in the wall,
meant nothing to you except
that music, those sweet notes
on electric piano that grabbed.

As with time it chose to flow,
and as with campaigns they
wither and are replaced, so
TV no longer held that captivation
for you and the music became lost.

How many other things of this
nature have slipped through
your fingers? How many forgotten
events, musics, people, words,
dreams are spiralling beneath
you in that unseen void?