Fingers caress the strings and the guitar sings the music for the air to hum,
The note kisses the cord and they seek no reward but the power to make the wind dance,
Hold the different strings and give the music wings to fly so high where the chorus refrains,
A bar holds a deep embrace and the beat ups the pace to a faster lane in the stave,
The lone solo joins another to form a fragile duet with the inspired power to shake mountains.
YOU ARE READING
Soft Curses of Angels - Volume 1 - A Fistful of Dust
PoetryThe earliest part of my chronological anthology of bad poetry. Estimated age at time of writing 12-16. I both thank and apologise to any soul who takes the time to read these.
