Where were those old notes you used to play...
The ones that shined so brightly,
Yet on paper, white as the sun,
The notes were black, even in day.

Yet I felt them differently, colors vivid and bright...
Many of those images were quite unsightly, however,
Though there were many dark things one would run from,
Even at midnight there is a moon with a silver ray.

Those old notes, black and colorful, it is said...
Did not flow through the same river as the others,
And against each other they fought with howling ferocity.
Death was impossible, yet they constantly bled.

You were not alone in your endeavors...
Many friends surrounded you, and so you pleased mother.
The ferocity of the music could not be reflected in images,
But they remained unaware, and as such were severed

from the truth