in the soundtrack of my story,
there exists a lone percussionist...
and he plays to fit
the demands of passing moments.

•••

to the calm he plays steady.
in uncertainty he hastens.
he matches the ticks of seconds
when all is quiet,
and he thunders
to crescendoes and climaxes.

•••

in the symphony of my life
there exists a lone percussionist...
and he resides unseen in my chest.