I see you up there,
With noone else, yet not alone,
I can almost swear
I can see every drop of sweat that sparkles.
Glistens and
tumbles,
moistens the strands feathering your forehead.

What is it like in your head?
Is it an organised chaos, an ordered carnage of ideas?
A melee of thought with only one winning the fight,
Only one presented to the world.
Or is it clinical, pristine, with all the tools laid out
in precise order, ready for the dissection of
Bach, Beethovan, Brahms, Blade slicing evenly through the black bars?
Inspiration, perspiration, memorisation, deliberation,
I guess what I'm asking is,
Where does the music come from?

I like to think hosts of angels
make music through hands that will let them,
reaching out through minute vibrations,
which can harmonise with the stirrings of our listening hearts.
He works in mysterious ways,
and we can but give as we receive,
in a beautiful reconciliation
through reciprocation.