His heart pumps out a bass drum beat

and keeps his body alive

and in tune.

Each breath is another remeniscent riff,

commemorating the times when music was real

and toasting to the decades he's too young to have seen.

He lives in a day-to-day world

where tomorrow never really matters

and yesterday is in the past;

where all can be fixed with the slow plucking

of solemn strings.

Melodies are his remedies.

It's a life of rests and stops

and repeats,

crescendo and allegro,

legato, coda.

Fingers to fretboard, he will compose.

Don't tell him he's good.

He knows.

Drink in each note,

each slide and seventh

and let it become you.

It is all about the music.

It is all about the message.

He teaches this every time his eyelids bat a highhat

and his smile hits the crash.