Dreamer
Farther shores that exist in dreams
Call to his heart
Here in this life of complicated nonsense,
Old magazines, five dollar cups of coffee
And pop culture that mostly pops
But is not cultured.
When morning comes, he has not slept
But sits, still dreaming of a plan
To not make a plan
To be spontaneous in an unarranged
Detailed sort of arrangement
Hidden to the eyelids of the masses
And unheard of by the ears of conformed genius
Claiming idiots in their billionaire boardrooms.
Music? What is that? It is his life's blood
It is his heart's beat. It is his soul's rush
It is his life, his love, his touch from divinity
His sanity............................
Now and then he slips into the night, still dreaming
And down the streets in rhythm walking fast
And singing low, listening to the guitar in his head
The piano solo in his mind.
Writing words that come together of their own accord
And in the writing down of those words,
Healing himself in some sweet mysterious way
That nothing else can and that nothing else ever will.
He longs to be invisible but needs the world
To see him as he is
And what he is is a dreamer in a dreamless world
A tough and tender warrior in a place of tiny phones
And I-Podded computer generated popcorn pathos
Churned into a butter that won't melt and eyes that won't meet
And hearts that won't love and rain that won't fall
Until his hands touch those ivory keys and pluck those silver strings
That call out silently with their little voices, beckoning him back
No matter where he walks and no matter how far he runs.
The music calls him but it won't wait...............
It must be written. It must be played. It must be sung
Even if his heart is the only heart that ever hears it
Even if his tongue alone will taste the words
He is a dreamer and his music is the dream.
©by Voo
For Mark
you da man!
smile
