He is the conductor,

Without an Orchestra.

He raises his hands,

And weaves them through the air.

The music is silent,

But the notes are still there.

The cannot be heard,

Because they cannot be heard normally.

The notes slowly etch their way into minds,

And the souls of to those who listen.

As the music is not simply music,

Yet it compels people to follow the conductor.

Those fans are not just there for the music,

But the thoughts behind the sounds.

And the conductor continues to bend, weave, and twist his music,

Until the end of his song,

And to those who listen, feel.

They feel emotions course through them,

And it can affect them strongly.

As the conductor turns to take his bow,

He gets a silent standing ovation.

And he leaves the stage,

Only to write his next symphony.

And the audience waits until the next time,

Waiting for him, and his music.

They wait for the Author,

Who weaves the words to create his masterpiece.

The written symphony,

The Poem,

The Pro,

The Story,

The Play,

And on and on he may write,

Only to be known as the conductor,

Without an orchestra.