O' stranger of night, you intrigue me.
Night by night, I listen to your symphony.
Fingers on the string, you play on and on,
until the twilight break of the dawn.
Your passion for music never quenches,
it is deeper than the deepest trenches.
Monsoon, winter, autumn or summer,
you hum like a sweet bird hummer.
I listen to thee, day and night,
if you stop, I pine for your voice's light.
Its not love, its not lust,
its a passion for thee, understanding this is a must.
Words flow like a stream when I think of you,
to me, your music of strings is as silent as a coo.
The music you make is like a prayer to me,
being blind doesn't deter the spirit of your symphony.
-PSYCHOTIC POET
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 2:23 AM UTC
O' stranger of night, you intrigue me.
Night by night, I listen to your symphony.
Fingers on the string, you play on and on,
until the twilight break of the dawn.
Your passion for music never quenches,
it is deeper than the deepest trenches.
Monsoon, winter, autumn or summer,
you hum like a sweet bird hummer.
I listen to thee, day and night,
if you stop, I pine for your voice's light.
Its not love, its not lust,
its a passion for thee, understanding this is a must.
Words flow like a stream when I think of you,
to me, your music of strings is as silent as a coo.
The music you make is like a prayer to me,
being blind doesn't deter the spirit of your symphony.
-PSYCHOTIC POET
