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3:01 a.m.
February 13, 2016
t’wasn’t perfect
but like a child
singing on stage
for the very first time,
the sound,
delivered the emotions on the tip
of your fingers.
Like the egg
hidden in a handful of hay
the sun greets the grin
of a yellow farmer.
Within the womb of a moon
the sun resting under a
blanket
I set in between the sonata.
In the Mecca of hope
black stones in my eyes,
I drift off
on a feather boat,
hoping to never set foot on
dystopia,
hoping for your hands to
never leave the keys
© Maegan F., Harrisburg, NC
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Every song has a memory tainted within.