Falling Blossoms Rise To Be Heard Poem by Mark Heathcote

Music lets you float above the clouds.
It condenses the raindrops in your heart and soul.
It creates snowdrifts where silence enshrouds
White and dreamy, you're a flower in God's buttonhole.

You're the music that sings from a falling star.
And when you sing, on the horizon, there are rainbows.
A group of strangers from many nations made friends.
Lyrically speaking, your avatar is a superstar.

Music lets you cross bridges near and far.
It's a serpent with a heavenly hissing speaker—the tongue.
It's a viper that wants to bite you but leaves no scare.
Fill up your lungs; it's a blessing we should all share.

Music, to be fair, is an unconquerable magic.
As a force for good, it leaves us charmed.
Music is a midnight flower, a melodramatic choir.
It haunts you with its beauty. Its hook, its chorus forever.

Some of its tremulous voices echo like starlings.
Tremor-like a heartbeat turning oceans in their sleep,
Some shot like a starling—killed; cross subgenres
Their words, like falling blossoms, rise to be heard.