The Process of Composing a Song

The notes flow out of my swimming soul.

Standing up, they brush themselves off

before leaving through the hole

in my haphazard heart.

Like a small silly snowman they sit,

waiting to be put on paper.

A grass-green thought in the mist,

tasting the lime-cool air.

Then I take them by the top of their heads,

shake them a little right and left,

and place them in their best beds,

shaped into ideas.

Happy as I am, I hear their cries.

They will not be content with just

sitting there until one dies.

Sadness in their deep souls.

They gratefully look up at me as

I turn their anger into pride.

I play them. I play them fast.

Play them for all to hear.

So that everyone may hear their song,

I play them as an extension

of my soul. Their dreamy long

sounds sweep through the heavens.

It is then that they shake my hand sore,

turn, and as birds of the winter,

fly off to other lands for

further people to hear.

I am disheartened, for they left me.

But I am proud. Standing silent

on the hill of the happy,

I cry as they run off.

Later on I hear them, replaying

with friends, with strangers, with people

as strange as the moon saying

"Beautiful!" Beautiful…

A cheery bundle of jolly joy,

they look back at their creator,

as if I were a tall toy,

playing with their lost dreams.

I smell them. Like lime-cool air they smell

no longer. They must now taste the

maple mountain of marvels

Rising out of the mist.

Freezing from the frigid frost of far

They hold me, their hug a cold snow,

begging to find a way back

to my haphazard heart.