Autumn leaves
That fall from trees
They crunch beneath my feet.
The bitter winds
This season brings
Stir lovers' hearts awake.

This realm of rain
Grey sky and cloud
It's quite and peaceful
Safe, allowed.

I hear the stories
The secrets in ink
The pages that call
Are the missing link.

Beethoven, black coffee
Dark fire and ice
Sweet strings and composers
Old friends that entice.

Lovers and enemies
Pain and prose
The humanity, the passion
That history knows.

Quiet brilliance
Images, thoughts and ideas.
Artists and angels
Calm bohemian fears.

Why do we love what
Never was,
What never can be?
Amidst the thrill of creation
We're truly free.

From when I was a little child
I picked up on thought and sound
It isn't always visible but it is still around.
It's the talent and the beauty
The poetry of life
You find it in a sonnet
Or the colours of Monet
In Pavarotti's voice
The world just melts away.
Shakespeare's words? They drip like honey
And illuminate the stage
It sends shivers up the spine
What Wordsworth scribbled on a page.
Jules Verne could tell the future
Da Vinci saw what was to be
Their vision shaped the world we know
Now that is great to me.
Does it have a name?
What Rembrant found within his art?
That secret, silent something
That burns within the heart.
As a child Wolfgang Mozart
Drew everybody's gaze
He serenaded Europe
Wrote music to amaze.
Was Bogart such a legend?
Now, don't speak before you think
Not everyone can breathe life into
A person made of ink.
The passion is alive
It lives inside the soul.
When pen is put to paper
Or the bow goes to the string
When that magic is embodied
We hear the angels sing.