• Symphony of Inks

    The first casual phrase pf an unwritten symphony,
    One oboe holds a lone sweet note.
    The light smell of fresh ink hangs in the air.
    It calls out to me, sitting in math class,
    I can do naught but ignore it.
    A bassoon joins the oboe,
    Holding that same sweet note,
    Two octaves below.
    The musty scent of old paper joins the ink,
    Now hanging heavily in the air.
    My pencil click, stops taking note.
    The whole brass section tumbles in, the instant
    My pencil starts to fly across the page.
    A symphony of inks is playing in my mind.