A bow draws through the silence of the strings.
Awakening them to life from a silent slumber.
Sending shivers vibrating through the air.
Each note an entanglement of bow and string coming together, like strangers lost in each others gaze.
Then torn apart by what would be the battle field of yet another symphony.
Till so gracefully bringing bow and strings back together ending with the last note falling.
Bringing them peace as both are placed gently in a case.
The violin its strings and bow now rest together till the next symphony is to unfold.

Living between the pages and lines.
Written through days and nights.
Where the real me comes to life.
Letting go of the fake what other people would make of me.
And turning instead to another page to make it my own.
Leaving my mind to wonder with its own thoughts.
While feeling right at home, even if nowhere but between the
pages and lines of a book.

Shy

Sleeting snowflakes melt be for me.
As a flame burns from one’s heart so warm.
For it might be winter at its coldest yet it is more like springs warmth that I feel.
Yet so afraid so not one word of this is said.
For not wanting to extinguish this delicate flame.
For not wanting to feel the cold of winter again to soon.  
Yet is it wrong to say nothing?
For maybe you feel the same spring warmth.
Yet you do not show unless it is just me unable to read the signs.
For even in such little of time.
For is it so that two strangers can meet somewhere and have so much in common.
And have a bond made yet still delicate still shaking so unsure of this spring in the middle of winter.
So careful footprints do I tread upon.  
For who knows how this will play out.  
Who knows what is yet to be said.

We are all our own mistakes.
For all that we have made.
Whether they be simple or unforgivable.
For like a puppet carved from wood, so too are we carved by our mistakes.
  For it is our mistakes that seemed to be seen clearly.
Yet that is not to say that is all that is seen.  
For mistakes can also be mended.
And as a lesson can also be learnt.
For mistakes are like teachers yet their lessons are not in writing.

Throw another log of misunderstanding on the fire.
  And let it burn till the dust and ash settle, clearing the smoke from the air.
Yet leaving a smouldering ember to remind us of a lesson learnt.
For no one is perfect and misunderstandings are just prove of that in one way.
Yet as temperatures rise they also cool off given time and  understanding.
  For misunderstandings are like the wrong question given for something.
  Yet once the right question is found so to can the answer , and with it an understanding for what has been  misunderstood.

Breaking through the ice of isolation.
Years of boundaries and walls breaking crumbling down.
  Years have nothing now wanting something.  
A voice once silent now calls out to anyone.
Exchange the dark for a little light.
  Finding change to be a breath of air gone with the style and in with the fresh.
For life is full of changes some good some bad, but they always bring something new.
And a change either way it may go can help you move along your way in life.
For a change is what you make of it.

Strip everything back to a blank canvas.
  And find a colour that fits.
For what is painted on the inside, is what is really seen upon the outside.
  For even the best looking can be overlooked.
For if you look properly looks are like a cover of a magazine.
  Made to draw you in.
Yet it is still what’s on the inside that makes you want to buy it.
And for like a cover of a magazine.
   Over time it gets wrinkled and loses its glossy looks.
And so too do we.
And there for in the end, it is only what’s on the inside.
That is all that is left to see.

A falling feather floats through the air.
  Lost from that who used to own it.
Yet holding itself up within the air for one last dance, before it is taken by the ground below.
  Floating slowly gently as it makes its way to where it will rest.
  For the feather like everything else that its time has passed, has been set free.

As I look upon a piece of paper that of which is blank.  
Wondering what to write this time.
  So I took some time to look at it.
And I saw how nice and neat it looked.
With its lines straight and evenly spaced.
  And its colour a fresh clean white.
As it waited to have the colour added to it.
Whether it be by the ink of a pin or the lead of a pencil.
  It does not matter to a blank piece of paper.  
And as I write I can see it come to life by the words that I write.
That make up sentences to fill the blank Lines with life and character for all to read.
  For when we write a blank piece of paper starts to come to life.
Even if just by one word.

A bird

A bird in the dust ruffles its feathers happily.
For there’s nothing at that moment in time, that that bird would rather be doing.
  For its happy just to be flicking dust through its feathers.
And if left in peace it may even stay for quite some time.
    For this bird is so free in its ways.
And even as people walk by it, it does not care.
For it just keeps on with its fun in the dust.
  And it’s good to see something finding pleasure within something so simple.
When all around it has changed.
For that bird at that moment in time.
  Must have been as rich as the richest man.
Even though it had nothing more than dust.

A mask  is something one wears to hide what’s inside.  
As a smile shows on the outside tears may be falling within.
Then when danger is present bravery is shown but fear is really felt.
A mask is something worn to hide one from prying eyes for some time alone.
  A mask is something one wears to hide everything behind.
   Unless one wants to show others what one wants them to see.
But sometimes it may take others to look through the mask, to see the true feelings and person beneath.
For we all wear a mask of our own sometimes.

Leaving this day for a dream, time to be lost into the night.
Leaving  the clock on its own to march through time.
While  hoping  to be lost from it.
Not wanting to grow old.
No fun is there to be told.
Moving closer to that of which is unspoken.
Still waiting for a dream to wake up into reality, instead of leaving as day brakes.
Only to be left again within the hands of time.

Sometimes in my head.
No peace from noise of thoughts running through the silence unknown.
Waiting hoping for once just once,
too be all  but nothing.
Letting silence take its toll.
Escaping in its splendor till the next day of tangled thoughts.

Time such a through less thing.
As it moves along at a steady pace all of its own.
Not knowing what's going on within itself.
Or what is yet to happen.
Only knowning what has happened.
Good times go fast bad times slow.
But no matter what may happen.
Time can not say what is to happen in our lives.
Only we can make our time good or bad.
Time just keeps us moving towards our destiny.
For as long as our time may last.

Love for a moment “unjudged” yet not untouched.
For the last piece a long lost piece of a puzzle near complete found at last.
  For a connection made so strong that it would seem like two links of a steel chain coming together.  
   Bound in time never to be broken.
Or a moth as no matter where it is in the dark.
It always finds the light as to be attracted to it with a deep desire.
    And to dance with it as if it has danced with it all of its life.
For love is more than just a feeling it’s knowing and connecting with that someone.
For when it’s right love is like a key to a door turning a spark into a flame that burns bright.

Taking a breath of air and drawing life from it.
  Like the ones gone before it.
For like petrol to a car keeping an engine running.
  A breath of air keeps us moving.
Yet who knows we’re the air comes from, and where it goes after we’ve taken it?
  For like unspoken words that are just a thought.
These two are neither seen nor heard.
Yet giving without taking a breath of air brings life to all who breathe it.

Falling through time with less to spear along the way.
Falling through time with nothing but time as a constant friend.
Falling through time holding hands and growing old with in it’s grasp.
Falling through time with nothing but time as a constant reminder of what could have been, or what may yet too be
Falling being the hardest thing not knowing if you’ll ever be court.

Like an old friend from years ago, yet refusing to let go.
Dragging it along behind you from one day to the next.
  As its weight grows leaving you even more alone.
And yet it is this baggage that should be left on its own, as it is things that have happen.
  And if hung on to may blind you from things yet to come.
For baggage is not the friend you should hold on to.

In between the lines of life.
Somewhere in the shadows suttle secrets do we keep, from prieing eyes.
Slipping between the shadows, the pages of who we really are.
Till the sun shines upon them letting others catch a glimpse.
If only for a second till back to the shadows we carst the real.
Once again taking on the fake.
For not wanting too stand out happy to blend in.
Living life by the same page.
Yet also longing too write a new.
Waiting for a day too shine.

Under lock and key is where you’ve placed this heart.
  That you now hold.
For not wanting any more.
It has now locked its door and closed its windows.
  Only to be opened by you who now holds the key.
Yet now not afraid to show that it is taken.
  As it dances to a different beat.
And it is to this end that this heart would be lost without you.

In your eyes from the first time I looked you captured me.
standing at the end of time couldn't look away.
Didn't know your name didn't need too.
Yet just in time you had come to be in front of me.
Standing still a moment to take a breath .
As you steel me from a moment of lifelessniss.
As you bring me falling back into life.
Unbeknownst to all of this there you stand with a smile.
Not knowing I was saved by you.

Life is rolling the dice and taking whatever may come.
  For good and bad go hand and hand , just as with the sun and moon comes day and night.
And unlike sand in an hourglass life is never motionless for one moment, that we are awake.
  For like time itself it moves on even if the hands upon  a clock stop.
For Life is everything or nothing.
Life is you and what you make of yourself.

Here in this pain we seek unrelentless                                                                hopeless to the need not willing to be alone
As time moves more together from apart                                                                  while others are left to wait till their time may come
lonely or not this ever growing act of life                                                      unchanged in time                                                                                                                 meet by the need of someone                                                                                                                                                                                                    
Yet just as hard the act of walking alone                                                                          the act of finding someone
only to find when the end may come for one                                                              the unwillingness to let go
there after only able to have that someone in mind                                                  no longer able to hold
knowing that it may be to late to start a new                                                   suddenly feeling the pain for what it is                                                                                To hold a broken heart hoping in time it may mend                                                                  
Being one we would gladly suffer                                                                                            even change who we are if only to have someone                                                            to hold till we are to feel this pain
In which we eagerly unknowingly stride towards                                                 that of which is left after love                                                                                               if not love again

Like a fragile crystal glass if dropped.
  So too is honesty hard to hold.
For some times honesty is hard to take if truth be told.
  And so we hide it like children playing hide and seek.
Hoping to be last to be found.
Yet honesty should always be lead with.
  Even if it means something gets broken.
For things through honesty may be mended faster.
For honesty whether it’s a good or bad thing.
Honesty is always the best thing of all.

Original for there is only ever one.
Whether it be a sunrise or set no two are the same.
And even a wave that rolls in to meet a sandy shore.
From one to the next they also change.
Yet the beauty of these things we may not forget.
For being original is what sets one thing apart from the next.
And it is to this I say we as people should be original to who we are.
For there will only ever be one of who we are.
For we too are all originals.
And it is those who stay original that may not be forgotten through time.

Life is but a rose bright in first bloom.
  It colours bright but delicate to show its beauty.
   It stem strong to show its strength.
Each may look the same but each are different.
As time drifts by after a while things change.
The rose grows dim its colour once bright now faded.
   Its stem once stronger now weak.
The rose now withered may sadly silently die.
But for each that dies.
  In time another will bloom brightly in its place.
Such as life it will always go on.

Dying moments of night mixed with new life of morning light.
  Like a stone shattering a window, the dawn brakes through the dark sky.
And in its short time brings to life a brand new day one in which is not yet to be wrote upon.
  And even though the dawn only has a small part to play in this day.  
It’s like everything else, it’s not how bigger part you play or the action you take.
  It’s what follows that makes it important.

To give or take.
To love or hate.
To win or lose.
To live or die.
For like a math sum that a teacher write upon a board.
  These too are like numbers that add up to something within our lives.
For just as there is plus or minus.
  We give or take
Yet there is more to this sum of life.
For like to win or lose sometimes you can find yourself divided by a draw.
And yet just like plus and minus are opposites.
   So to are the fractions in our lives.
And yet they are all a part of the same sum.
One in which may be practiced more than the sum of numbers.

A raindrop rolls down a window pane and falls upon a sill.
  So does a teardrop roll down a cheek, to fall or be wiped away.
Yet like a photographer taking a photo to capture a moment.
  A teardrop captures emotions and paints a picture of its own, for all to see.
Yet tears can be of joy or sadness.
And as they have done so many times before.
   Tears always find the right time to fall.
Whether it be the right time for us or not.
For a teardrop holds the truth of a moment.
   In the time it is to fall.