I can write the most musical poem you've ever seen
I bet my Vic Firth drum sticks on it
Music isn't just a thing to do, it is a language
A way of life
It can bring emotions so overbearing
Like reeling a crossbow in the abyss
Or salt on a wound
It can feel like a physical puncture
Never obsolete, never distant from the present
When the harmonies collide and all else fails
You think of the music
The beautiful soul that did this to you
What does it do to me?
It makes me ache with longing to apart of such beautiful creations
To always love, never forget the look of this musician
No...artist
The crease of concentration on their forehead
The way each note perfectly plucked, blown, or heard
Is consistently formed, caressing me, the people around me with every emotion
If I could save the air, simply pluck it from my surroundings to save for later
I would
So I could listen to the piece whenever I pleased
I would pick the part when the music picks up and crescendos endlessly, almost skeptically
I would capture that moment exactly
Like a camera snapshot
If only I could be in that moment forever