Out of Tune

Strongly singing songs of the season,
Phrases of joy and warmth,
Coming forth,
Ringing with perfect rhyme and reason.

Cutting through the summer's day,
The chords play, in clear tone,
Until they groan,
With the dissonance of a heart gone astray.

As the winds grow colder,
The racket grows bolder,
Until the last played sound grows older,
Leaving the remaining tones sit and molder.

All that's left is ages of silence,
No muse to guide the hand that plays,
Or form any sort of rhythmic song,
As the life freezes within the finger.

But suddenly, someone warms the hand,
And picks up what has fallen,
Warmth flows through again,
As the player's songs ring out once more...

A beat flows out slowly but surely.
Strong like a march, but soft like a ballad.
And the chords ring out just as purely,
If not more than before they went poor and pallid.

A muse has appeared to guide the young hand,
And add a new voice, to this one heart band.