Angel of Music

I breathe in music, and soon it all has a rhythm. Emotion is palpable; taste its indescribable flavor. Music is the voice you have when you feel you have none. It is my voice vicariously when I cannot speak. Life is sustained in each note. Composers initiate, but you take wings in flight. The notes dance through the pages, weaving as the conductor's gloved hand to each line. My swirled dreams; ears alone are not sufficient. It must thrive in your soul. Listen deeply. You trill a picturesque scene; colors weave, eddying a painting with each stroke of those ivory keys, the strum of a harp, resonance of drums, chiming bells. Taking hold of the chisel and sculpting my spirit, the hum from the keys flows as the life in my veins. As the clothes we wear, I wrap myself in your song. Whether I wear frilled gowns or comfortable T-shirts, I am counseled in my state of mind.

This angel is the manifestation of my heart's desires. You teach me love, compassion, and wrath in the same sweep. Stroking each key, each bell, every lingering chord, I find myself caressing the ardor attained by music alone. My heart glides with the sonatinas, dances in the dawn with the etudes, and cries with the soliloquous sonatas. I shall never know all you speak lest I spend each frail slip of the hourglass to peruse your wisdom, knowledge, and discernment. The frustration is understood with the heart like beating of drums, peace with the fluttering bells; and when I don't understand the world, and the world misinterpret me, I find ease with the ever-ranging piano. Retaining the grace, poise, and prose, I draw from your wells, epitomizing my highs and lows. You speak peace in war, love in hate, ardor in apathy, and hope in none; stirring, reflecting, provoking these moods I lock away. You have stolen the key to its captivity. Solace is always found in your encumbering embrace. The way, with each stroke fo the piano, its heart echoes its woeful cry. I grip tighter, and you sing more powerfully. Though I am loathe to release my heart, you brush my hand and hand me wings of my own. As freedom is bereft of me, I always fall into you. As I reach out to the sky, but find it unreachable, I sigh, to have my outreached hand clasped by yours.

"Why can I not fly into its bright, welcoming expanse?" I ask its doleful, loving eyes; and plunging into its melody, I find that though my hand cannot touch the sky, my fingers and soul can soar with that entity so abstract, yet understood, upon which we don the name of music. The short staccatos remind me of the wisps our lives are in eternity, and the fermatas whisper to hold each moment dear; the pedals' slipping, mellowing tone teaches to learn to let go of life's swelling tide. We are human and don't understand all; and music alone understands me. Through you, I sing my hymns of praise to God on high, and in my pitiable lows, you raise me up. You are what mere words fall short to express, that sensation welling and bursting in our hearts. The heartsong, the heart throb, that passionate rhythm narrating my lifesong. You alone pattern this sensation.

My angel of music.