Song Without Singer

Your fingers
with the rhythms
of your own creation,
your own volition
to play your soul,
to lay it down
and feel your fingers
speak for your words.
To play,
to be,
to really place your agony
at my feet,
your fingers do
what your lips cannot.
They speak
with words
from dictionaries
not yet penned
and scream out
the miseries
lying at the feet
of mountains
not yet built.
And your melodies ache
for lyrics
to ease their sting,
to usher sanity
into the chaos
of song without singer.
Take my words
and build those mountains,
those agony-filled canyons.
Take these lines
and turn them
into the magic
they could never hope to find
on their own.


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