To Music

Those gentle swerves poking my nerves,
The melody that remembers my life’s every tragedy,
Yet its pleasant, this feeling of mysterious dent
In my mind, in my heart and in my every part
Making myself prolific.

What profundity You possess, I ponder?
Why do I respect You so much, I wonder?
All disturbances when I listen to You, when I put myself in You,
Don’t they cause in me a heart breaking thunder?
You make me charm like a flowering bud in my farm,
And I forget all my life’s fear.

Don’t You make me rhyme as with You I obsess,
With only known art form I possess?
These words that are felt in because of You, hope they melt in,
With beauty and awe as I listen to You.
One day I’ll take up Your form, losing my life I’ll die in an artistic tomb.
And You’ll be the place I would love to dwell in.


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