Those old songs

fill up my glass more than wine
forgotten in the cupboard
behind some stale bread.

Freddie Mercury proves ghosts are real,
haunting my speakers
with the same authority as footsteps
in my attic, and I’m sure of death
being annoyed by it all,
like someone with a loud neighbour
who ruins their sleep
the night before another day of work.

Then there’s the classics, such as Bach,
writing love songs to god
without having to worry about rhyming
“love” with something witty,
and turning a Tuesday night into a church
that doesn’t need organized religion
to prove there’s always been an afterlife
of sorts.

Yes, there’s more to music than sound,
especially when the silence preaches
about our own oblivion,
only for me to constantly find faith
in the dead musicians and singers
who won’t die.