The world is loud
With life and brims till breaking,
Melodies spilling
A symphonic soup
Into the cracks
In the floor. Silver noise
Slips underground
Where the sound gathers
And grows, and I
Become deaf, dumb,
And dazed with a beatless
Blur beneath. Not a sound
Speaks inside. Ever cold,
Ever quiet. The music was lost
To me long ago.
Then you came
In soft-spoken sonatas,
Gaze aglimmer
With the chorus
As a crown
Upon your dusky head.
And the world melted
Into watercolor haze,
Muted to hushed
Harmonies. Now
The music lives
Within. Crescendos crash
Beneath my skin
Where you planted
The first seeds of song.
May it play ever long.
He Who Wanders 