The music flows

Through your veins,

Creating magic,

Dragons, long lost worlds:

All available

For your fingers to mold.

Notes flow

Through the air,

Wiping away

Every trace of a care.

Fingers fly,

And the beat bounces,

Full of life,

Taking your spirits

To the sky.

Finally the last notes

Begin to die down,

And you wish there was more

For the next time around.

As you slide off the bench,

Put down your guitar,

Remember

How special you are.

To create music,

A holy thing,

Is more than many others

Ever dare to bring.