By Christopher J. Bradley
3/6/01 5:51:20 PM

To compose
To write
To make music
And fill the ear with voice.

This is something I often did
By low light
In the green room
In any season.

I often dreamed of fantastic places
Robots Planes and Cars
Traveling together between the spaces
Left behind through time.

Jotting notes down with a pen
I'd make them come to life
And build the tracks with keyboard gear
To make steely drums bite.

Composition is an art
A pattern of woven skills
Not quite the phantom it appears
To the weak of will.

Someday I'll share my symphony
To see what people think
As they dance and dine and thrill
To my sand washed blink.

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