Unclaimed

I want to hear the music of summer. A music of yesteryears that is unadorned and gruff, the notes in line with the blazing morning sun, notes that feel stripped away.
A reminder to the defrost the cloud filled memories that swell and shrink with the supple lyrics, a street tell-tales survivor story around and around in an infinite loop.
A puddle is about to be desiccated, a siren that goes silent for years, a shifting sky above knows the fears of outrunning shadows, of those who always claiming me as theirs.
In summer, I dream of a tall house with empty windows, the gardens set pattern of dry flowers and trees, a dream that meanders into my memory that will inhabit later.
Music is always the wave that soars and heal, that washes everything except my voice.