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The Mind of a Song-Writer

My index finger brushes the ivory white keys
Forcing them down ever so slightly
Allowing each to exhaust out a distinct pitch
Echoing throughout the bodice of the upright cherry wood piano

The lids of my eyes start to close their open doors
Shutting out all distractions from the visible world
Entering my soul into a vague limbo of serenity
My sense of touch feels the heaviness of my eyelashes
Batting against my winter white skin

I want the hazel irises of my eyes to remain hidden
Sheltered under this thin roof of skin and veins
But the image of your countenance pulses through the violet blood streams
Oozing its way into my sight
Green clashes with violet & then mixes to form
The centered circle of pitch black

I lift up the slender tips of my hands
My eyes remain closed; my mind open
And I place back down my hands atop
The fragile keys, and I play

The chapped corners of my lips
Open wide as words begin to emanate through
The split and broken cracks

Pitches dance with language in the bitter air
Chords stand nervously on the sidelines
Eventually gaining the courage to join
The beauty of this everlasting dance
What my ears are hearing is of true splendor
The sounds reveal undiscovered colors of the past

I am finally seeing with my ears
Catching every glimpse that we so often miss in life
I’m swirling in images of gold and crimson and sapphire
Brilliant visions emerge from the echoes ringing around me
I’m lost in an enchanted world of endless beauty
Soaked in the richness of the unnoticed,
Buried in the admiration of the unappreciated

And then you reappear
And everything is lost.



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