Melodic Poem by Melissa Bates

Oh that perfect strum,
As fingers dance along your neck,
Hardened from your beauty,
That man who can make you sing,
Could never understand,
The power he weaves,
The wisdom held in his hands,
On paper, so cold and calculating,
But in waves it soars,
Touching places hidden,
You call out to him,
Wake him when he sleeps,
He always reaches out for you,
When he needs you most,
Your language says what he cannot.
He flexes and makes you vibrate,
But he’s the one who quakes,
With you in hand,
He will rally a generation,
You are the instrument,
And only he can play your song.