The Perspective

As the fingers dance in the air as if playing a piano
What could be called in a closed box with a man sitting infront
With words buzzing around his head like the flies on a carcass
Too young to comprehend the arresting style of his smile
All that could be heard was the majors falling behind the minors
Rising high at times like the tides on a full moon
Falling harder as if displaying the brutal prowess,
All the notes forcefully fit into a finite space!

I wonder if I should worry about the man infront of me
Or about the magical dance my fingers are doing to an imaginary tune
May be the words aren't buzzing, if only I could hear closely
Isn't it the fragrance and the sweetness of the flowers?
May be a song of the young heart too young to comprehend all things
At times its blood, at times its the lips, at times its the ticking clock
And sometimes an irresistible desire to get lost in the haze of the heads
May be the majors with bright shining smiles are saying something
May be the bright lights are hiding right behind the dark minors?
I wonder if its the brutal force that pulls the tides high on a full moon
Or may be just the waves are drunk? Who knows!
At times overlapping notes talk about the Music unheard of...

If only I could stop wondering...
But what am I without the child inside my head craving for imagination
What am I without the young man chasing the Winds in suit
What am I without the heart engulfed in romance...
Isnt it a man's romance to conceal his heart away in art forms unknown...