vintagehummingbird

 Fingers dance across a keyboard And a pen scribbles down the page The fingers, passionate and scored The pen, an instrument of rage. Brushes flit about a canvas And added to the sculpture are globs of clay A room that does withstand this Will grow messier day by day. Warm bodies, flung about in some choreography And a voice strung out with age The dancers know the stage's geography While the voice is that of a sage. The fingers tap out the crescendo The dancers bow and take their leave The painter and sculptor add finishing touches And the singer sings the last verse. Meanwhile, the writer frantically attempts to finish their work befor