March 3, 2011 § Leave a comment

You are wrinkly remnants
of spirit and soul
I am disheveled layers
of self-control
You are symphonies brimming
With joy and lament
and I am virtuosity
without enlightenment
Your body cannot handle
what your hands are used to doing
Where my fingers follow blindly
through noted paths that they’re not choosing
You’re an octogenarian speaking in octaves
And I’m already in my twenties
But your palms are full of gospel
And my intervals are still empty
You are hands that speak in darkness –
tell the listener what to feel
Where my skill shines only in spotlight,
telling audiences what to hear
I speak in accurate spelling,
Reading lines too well-rehearsed
But you are acting as the author
With melodic life immersed
I merely transcribe the classic scrawls,
The heartless work of a translator
But you have truth upon your mind and lips
The humble call of art’s creator



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You are currently reading #48 at Authored Angioplasty.


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