The strumming of a guitar could be heard faintly.
Its playing strings telling a soft story.
Humming notes whose glowing hearts
Are hidden.
Far from the eye.
But awaken and caress the ears.
Who is it that plays your strings?
Who is it that gently coaxes that music out of you?
I want to know.
Because the beauty pulled from the dead lights
Calming and warm in a barren land.
I hope that they will know
That I'm thankful
And that those small songs
Never stop singing your name.
YOU ARE READING
To: You
PoetryPoems addressed to you. You who is my friend. You who is my family. You ... who has yet to become anything and everything.
