instrument
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Your percussion becomes a domed playground,
And I'm swept by the cacophony of your sound.
The cry of the violins moves me to tears,
And you soothe my fears through all the years.
With delicate fingers
An ancient song is woven from the soils of melancholy and ambition
Notes articulated each to their own
Black ink expressed with charisma on the white parchment
An instrument you may be
you hold souls of old
and play the merry spirits of past days.
You speak of sorrow,
and of joy,
and many emotions in between.
Your silver sheen
reflects both
If Music--be the Food
Of Love--Play on
Through streams of Oil--
And mend the crude
Thoughts of Man.
