K.D. Scriminger

At markets’ center
On the edge of a fountain
Sat a musician
Doing what he loves
Just playing his drums.

It was his music
With a seductive beat
That lingered through
The market streets.
To where a poet sat
Lost in her work
(She fictitiously scratched).

The beat tantalized her feet
Willing her to search
The streets
For the sounding beat
That carried her along.

Her soul was lured
(Like a snake to its charmer)
She weaved in n’ out
Of the bustling crowds
Til at last
Her fortune found.

She smoothly passed
The first time through
‘Round the fountain
N’ right back to...
Where she so
Innocently
Brushed against
The musician who sat
(Watchful)
As she danced before his eyes.

He played some more
A stronger beat
A faster pace
To see her dance
To see her move
Until at last...
His beat was through...

She did not move
She stood before him
Gazing long into his eyes.
With intrigue she spoke
“How is it your music
Sounding so sweet,
Has called upon my feet
To bring me straight to you?”

Said the musician to the poet,
“‘Twas not your feet
That drew you near
‘Twas that of fate that
Sought you here.”

He drew her closer still
To whisper in her ear,
“I would play my drums
For all those near
But these drums
Have no sound to hear.”

With wonder and confusion
She looked at him
Certain she’d heard
A drumming sound...

He took her hand in his,
And placed it on his chest
“The sound you hear
That called you near
Was that of my beating heart
(Playing its own song)
Searching from afar
Longing for the one
For the one just like you
Who can finish my love song...”

Said the musician to the poet,
“What is love if it has no beat...
What is music if it has no words...
What is a song, that can’t be sung...
They are simply...
Lost sounds
Just drifting along!”