Spontaneous Works of an Endless Dreamer (Poetry)

For the Love of Music

There is a beautiful, bright, breeze, that shakes the trees, 

But eventuality, it ceases, and goes away. 

Silence.  

~ 

There is a harp, that plays a sweet, meek medley, 

For a dance, leaving the dancers, in a trance, 

Then, the song ends,  

Silence. 

~ 

There is the strings, that sings a song so fast, fingers flying across the fiddle 

But how long does it last, till the inevitable, 

Silence. 

~ 

There is a flute, the musician taps the keys, 

Of silver, the highest and over all instruments, does it ring, 

The flutist plays until they can't breath, 

Then silence.  

~ 

A little girl, takes some old battered pans, 

Pats and taps them, hums and sings, 

Until her parents one day, come along, take them away, 

And scorn her, 'till she cries, 

Silence.  

~ 

The same tiny, adorable, girl hears the bees buzz,  

The birds sing,  

Horns honk,  

Making their own melody.  

She excitedly tells her siblings, 

'Brother! Sister! There is music every where,' she says with a grin. 

But their looks as though she were crazy, pops her dreams with a pin. 

Just as her parents had done, so long ago. 

Years later, she would sit in a cluttered, claustrophobic, classroom, tapping her pen. 

Half asleep.  

Silence. 

~ 

But something catches her ears, she hears something that hadn't been said for years, 

' There is music everywhere, you need only listen.'  

She looks up at the teacher brightly, in agreement, and nods, though sleepy. 

' And, your assignment is committing one act of random kindness, and find the music in this world.' 

She went home excitedly telling her parents, they nodded it off, though looked bored, not sharing her enthusiasm. 

The moonlight shone through the window, 

And she silently skips to the roof, staring up at the moon, 

Looking past the worlds fears and spoofs,  

Counts all the stars, hears the all of the owls of the forest hoot. 

But sadly, slips down the roof like a slide, 

The night swallowing her up, taking her away with the tide, 

Yet survives, only because it's but a dream. 

Maybe someday she could have been the flutist, 

Tapping keys, 

She begs her parents please. 

Or perhaps, she was more apt, for the strings of a fiddle, 

Learn of the language of music, of riddles, 

Or no. 

~ 

See, she might one day play the harp. 

Keyword; might. 

But her parents discourage, 

And she hasn't the courage, to disagree, just obey. 

And let her dreams be of impossible things, and left with a simple thought, 

'Maybe one day.' 

And sometimes,  

It is the impossible hopes that make us believe that there is something possible. 

And vice versa,  

that possible hopes,  

Are impossible.  

~ 

But that little girl who can actually sleep at night, not troubled by insomnia, 

Who has a whole life, to follow her dreams, 

And make them into her reality. 

Being not just the girl who 'could have been.' 

She has a chance.

So carpe diem,

sieze the day. 

In the midst of work,

never forget 

to play.