The Centaur

The Centaur sings her jazz.
Smooth and soft,
moving through the bass strings like water
water rippling through the soul,
washing it clean,
mixing its thoughts for moments.
Sacred moments through soul pouring
Pouring of the soul,
Smooth to float on the water like oil,
Soaking the heart in healthy movements,
Smearing paint with a thumb,
Sometimes cold to the touch,
Sometimes blue, but always warm,
Luke-warm was never an option.
Songs pour out as she walks the side walks,
Her legs not quite human, her pace contemplating.
She is a rarity of kinds,
Her mind spins with the movements,
Her natures always at war,
Her heart always pouring jazz through the holes made by crooked hands,
Crooked smiles, crooked intentions,
Human.
The sounds pour out through the holes,
Soothing, smoothing out aches by the color blue.
Blue smeared here and there,
The walk is always noble,
A great capacity for ferociousness,
A great capacity to rise above crookedness,
Crooked sites on a gun,
Never hitting what they are aiming for.
Capacity for two extremes,
Jazz pours out her mouth like a sea.
Glad I learned how to swim.