T
he birth of a tune is magic,
Gifted by fingers, long and tacit,
A melody begun,
A web spun,
Of gold and dancing,
Twixt the lobes of thine ears,
Til none but it remains,
Spirals,
Of alabaster stone,
To pure the impure,
To dull the blemish,
Of that that was,
Until remains none ,
But the depth of a song,
The death, of a sorrow.
YOU ARE READING
Often confusing
PoetrySecond part to a muses musings because wattpad has a story limit. . . I mean an enthralling book of stories
