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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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