My love told me the truth,

It’s the way it came out of him, like smoke out of a chimney on a cold July morning,

And the smoke stated “you are a writer, isn’t it within you to find the right words?”

And so like any other battle, he set the pace for war,

And I have been in turmoil ever since then,

Because I do not see myself in those words, rather, I desire composition.

I desire notes, movements, moments, pauses…chills, emotions, Mozart, Bach, I desire the serenade of violins and concertos, thoughts evoked only by melody, arranged over time like symphonies…hands in the air, eyes closed…composition,

Not the anguish or effort of the Composer!