Seven

Music doesn't mean that much to me.

Except for the melodies,

The harmonies,

And the solos are nice, too.

And I suppose there's something to be said for

The crescendos that sweep their way through an orchestra,

Or cymbal rolls that begin as a whisper

But end as a shout.

There are Clarinets and Flutes

That rip their way through a lick,

Their fingers moving faster than humanly possible.

Tubas and Baritones support them with

Light, round 'bops',

As if they were imitating a stringed bass.

You have to hand it to musicians;

They take seven notes

And make entire works of art.

Just seven.

We have more fingers than that!

Seven notes that can express joy

Misery,

Bliss,

Or dismay

And any other emotion you can fathom.

Not any of that matters to me, of course, because

Music doesn't mean that much to me.





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