It was the rhythm of the fingers
Running through the black and white keys,
The feathery strum of the hollow guitar and
The beat of the arms that converses with the melodies.
The voice of the soul is not lyrics but song
That slowly lured the tie that has grown so strong.
This poetry’s not aimed at singing the tune
But only to hum the memory that began in a June.
You lit the room where the poet longed for a brother
And lay a hymn to the unsung dreams.
You strike a chord at him not to grieve and bitter
About life’s shrill discordant volumes.
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 8:37 PM UTC
It was the rhythm of the fingers
Running through the black and white keys,
The feathery strum of the hollow guitar and
The beat of the arms that converses with the melodies.
The voice of the soul is not lyrics but song
That slowly lured the tie that has grown so strong.
This poetry’s not aimed at singing the tune
But only to hum the memory that began in a June.
You lit the room where the poet longed for a brother
And lay a hymn to the unsung dreams.
You strike a chord at him not to grieve and bitter
About life’s shrill discordant volumes.
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