The notes like angels fall upon the
         paper submissive on the lines.
As if they were meant to mean more
                   than just a ceremony
of notes.
Giving a eulogy to
                                 my own request.

But even though cherubs grace my
         thoughts, divine interpretation
of an ending as this quill of white,


           gracing every imprint..



Perfection is blotted, the lines will
            never grace this reflection again.

An orchestra of hand gestures play,
         as if  I see ever instrument grace
the air in synchronized perfection.

I realise that I may not be a pauper,
        or one of riches and fame..

But I have a feeling that I'll live on
           within the lines of my creations.

A eulogy of my sound vibrating though
the halls of time, my eulogy is
           the sound I left behind never words.