Bohemian Frequencies

They lived in tabs and timelines, but dreamed of slower streets. Bohemian Frequencies is their silk escape — a soft echo of vinyl days, golden hour hush, and the gentle hum of a life less rushed.

My calendar is stitched with restless thread,
Each hour boxed, each breath a battle won.
But in my mind, small shutters swing instead,
And coffee cools beneath a softer sun.

I ache for clotheslines strung like chapel bells,
For towns where laughter spills from painted doors.
Where power lines hum low their village spells,
And music floats from vinyls on old floors.

The world I walk moves fast and speaks in charts,
But somewhere lives a life that simply is.
It plays in me — in pause, in whispered parts,
A hymn of moments I forgot were his.

I’d trade ten deadlines for one golden hour,
Where nothing moves — except a climbing flower.