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.