We laid her next to him beneath the willow while the angels sang a whiskey lullaby.
Source: Spotify
You spark a note in me, a breathing ember which fades. Yet the phoenix now created Will manifest its glory. Songs are composers’ winged children released. Though some become famous, adored; while others, Hardly written become lost—All is art. Vibrations and hums diminish and die; The secret show is about to begin. The signal-a sharp inhale… Nails tap keys with a click click clack. Magic speaks as I tease and play across the Black and white; the notes are traps. Stepping pedals sand it down And blend the notes into one bouquet; I stand and bow. This was your song.