Unspoken

A compilation of sound; rustic windchimes
in a hot August breeze, a delicate vein of  beauty
running straight through the center.

The ocean sighs, desperatly reaching for a sandy shore
only to embrace a few small grains. Such sorrow
as she pulls them like a lover, deep inside her.

That silence on the phone, when my soldier disconnects;
but he never says goodbye.

Music is sound poetry, rendered by instruments:
the plaintive mourn of the violin
blues from a trumpet's throat, when a sound has color
the jungle verbalizing, when a drum is attended
the riffs, feminine yet explicit, from my own guitar.
 
Each tone and fragment is captured, nothing escapes
And I know there is harmony in the song that love makes
As I wait to hear it.

(Artist unknown)