Painting a Song

Words, lines, pages.

A book.

And a cover.

Rooms, corridors, walls.

A roof.

And a house.

I’m lying comfortably with my eyes closed

My heart out in the open

My thoughts unclothed

When suddenly a storm sets the clouds in motion

The wind comes and turns the pages

It kicks in the windows and doors

Raindrops, heavy and courageous

gather in puddles on the floors

They smell like the ocean and taste like the sea

With tiny waves breaking on shore

And the monsters lurking undersea

don’t know why they are angry anymore

The hamstrung widow in the corner

starts to talk about love

With the wild gestures of a performer

and slender white hands wearing watertight gloves

The dark cynic muse sleeping on the dormer

Wakes up to recite poems about the sky above

He feels torture no longer

And sings about spring fields so lush

The guitar laid to rest in an open case

is dusted off by the wind‘s breath

Its strings resonate apace

humming a melody for the deaf

My fingers reach out in search

Between the floor boards they make a find

Black and white keys are right there in the dirt

And tones bald and clear emerge

It might all be in my mind

It might all be in my dreams

I might be wide-eyed and blind

My imagination rushing to extremes

But why would I bother, why would I care

Afterall, a songwriter comes through that door

Strides through the parlour

And turns my words into a song so pure

Words, tones, beats

A melody.

And a song.

That touches a chord.


"Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country." ~ Anaïs Nin