two composers
sing me all the words i want to hear for the lies that i hold far too near. you could hand me a cold and barren sheet of paper. within the bars i could scratch in circles and lines and curves of all sorts, and a sort of melody would mold into the grain, and a sort of pain would bloom within those tunes. i could hand you a warm and lush sheet of paper. beneath the bars you could etch swirls and loops of all sorts, and a sort of poem would pour into the grain, and a sort of rhythm would emerge within those words. you could sing me the song. i could play you the part. and, i could hold our paper beneath my head. and, the words and the music could fly from the front page, and into my ears, straight into my brain, and out would come tears, and they would fall onto the grain, and the grain would soak, and the ink would bleed, and my eyes i could cloak, and you would not need to ask of me why i cry, because i do not hold an answer that is bold to the question you mention. the wet ink falling ...