When I sing along to something heavenly, angels that live here on earth sing with me, a pine forest revery. We are a chorus, and our words, both life and death, both hymn and dirge, remain hopeful; music is a garden gate left open.
I feel the tingles to breathe in with these melodies, and when their words surge through my lungs, we reach a zenith, a flight of stairs dramatically bending. Pluck of strings; we are legato strolling.
We raise consciousness when our vocal cords strain. Soldered together by sound, we melt together and cool into new decorative formations.
It is true, I may have known you in another body, but now that you are in my ear, lullabying me through each drama, I find solace, a free-flowing fountain.
Music is a pleasure palace.
GloPoWriMo#24 Today, we challenge you to write a poem that involves people making music together, and that references – with a lyric or line – a song or poem that is important to you.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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