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Night covers the poet's window in blankets of starry light,
yet the poet will not sleep,
he never sleeps but writes,
throughout the long nights.
His soul has much to say,
He was born that way.
Haunting and beautiful his silver pen sings,
like a wind song blowing through the cedars of Lebanon,
each word a note coming together in harmony,
to rise, fall then rise again, to drift through starry Skies and sea, and into the listening heart of one like me.
My soul strains to understand the echoes of musical laughter, and silver accents of a strange tongue.
And I hear the faint ringing of church bells,
The gentle swish of feathered quills brushing across old scrolls like wings...
The odor of stale coffee, cigarettes, and roses blend,
beneath his song in a tune of their own making.
Love composing music?
The music drifts back to the poet in little blue dreams, and wisps of Smokey laughter until the sleepy silence of the poet himself,
awakens Mozart.
The lone specter cups a beautiful wispy hand to his soul, and listens for the notes to come again, but only hears the silence of his own creation through deaf ears...
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