Heart to sound.

One day I’ll write a song
Cynical and old
Bred from wavering fingers
Bred from waves that turned to stone

One day that song will grow
Grow into furrowed eyebrows that remind me of youth
Remind me of caterpillars and fuzzy tummies
Summer walks and tea

The piano will play its tune
And my nostalgic guitar will sing along
And all those old fingerprints will come alive once more
To remind me that I once held light
I used to make people smile

Feet will tap along with its tears
Tears of joy and sorrow
The song will be my past, after all
Something to call my own

If a melody could carry baggage
I imagine my tune could do it best
Wise and strong
Still alive and aware of Mother Earth

If my song connected to the land as perfectly as my toes
I imagine it would sound like Autumn
Beautiful and melancholy
I always loved the colors

And if my song ever ended
It would end with a heavy bass chord
One that would resonate for centuries
One to tell people I was here

Because every song is written for the purpose of the lyricist
It’s a stamp, a seal, a memory
A symbol to tell people that yes,
I existed.