Hold the stick
The rhythm seems smooth with delicate, cautious tempo
But metronomes change too suddenly
Then delay the drumroll
While notes remain splattered on this concert hall's ceiling
Waiting for the final autograph score
Before I let my hands follow the poor director's lead
He should know that the music in me
crushed to a pulp and powdered into dust
like a Monarch's touched wings
at the final clause of winter...
no more song, mister. And I do regret.
The first yellow days put across lovely visions
Such cream-filled, storybook dreams
Of a grand symphony composed by Consonance
Held together with harmonies so finely tuned...
And I was eager to play
Intent on hearing sounds of my own shaping
Avid on giving away a little more each time
Missing a little more melody
every pitch took me higher, into greater realms of
hearts burned on too short of a wick.
Only a few more ways to give
To replay that "ditty of bliss"
Except the same old frenzied arrangement
Crawls from parchment to printed copy paper
Da capo, with a bit more bended tessitura
And careful counts into the next measure...
My dear amanuensis,
I could stake your life on the leger lines
above and below the pretended pitch
I would bet that you run during seconds uncounted
crying in the winds of color that rush past your face
the volume rising from serenely soft
to absurd, fortissimo howling
shocking depths of unlocked tenderness
we don't count time while in love
take your breath mark while I live still strumming
and take it slow
none can steal this tempo from my pulsing veins
we don't count time while in love.