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She walks in the rythmn that only years of repetition can create.
Moving along to the beat of the violin, along the silent sidewalk of yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
Her voice speaks melodies,
discussion of friends on piccolo,
mentions of school in recorder,
snatches about the big picture on clarinet,
politics in a flute, strategies on guitar, and memories...memories on cello. Everything else plays to piano.
Her hair shines in the all-too-fast falling sunlight.
It's...too short, she says, but i say it's beautiful. Already the dye is gone, leaving the original color that defines her so well.
Hands never stopping, always playing devil's advocate to her crazy antics.
With words, she can paint the world as beautiful, in shimmering colors complemented by well-drawn concepts.
But in an instant can color the universe in midnight, a monochrome view of existance that can affect you forever, and you know that every word
every sentence every syllable, is said with conviction and only the right intentions involved.
Free from society's shackles, she is an artist of words, a singer of the songs mankind has created,
each note representing a life with purpose. Struggle and accomplishment, Pain and Relief.

And all I can do is listen and watch.