Jazz is a bourbon scented haze

floating through the bar.

And packs of cigarettes

burnt to the filter

and smashed into the ashtray.

A warm midnight

in the heart of metropolis.

And finding yourself alone

in an endless crown,

trying to fill the borders.

Cut fingers

and sore lips, molded

by the music they produce.

It is a lonely microphone

roasting in a spotlight.

Jazz is soul,

burning through veins

and flowing out eyes.

It dances through the crowd.