his fingers move across the keys
to put words on a page
like the pressing of chords
to shape a spoken music that will carry
his reader away
lost for awhile inside the little story-tales
set somewhere between the pounding of drama
and the tinkle of love
softly played in words damaged
by a narration that does not master the language well
perhaps from a foreign land
broken english and musical speech
deficient but done as well as he is able

it is always a solo
but he tries to convey an orchestration
of the life that he leads
by writing it for you
speaking of places and moments
of the things he sees
through tiny sonatas in a stanza form
with variations
moving from thought
through fingers
to paper
passed to you for inspection
to pronounce what you read and felt
did he craft a good story
does the music of his words
resound inside your head
after he has left you

© Frank Prem, 2002

5 thoughts on “composition

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