Melodies off the tips of my fingers

the clickety clack of my backlit keyboard

The bass trembles,  the treble buzzes;

the entire room into  a symphony;

the music of the toils of a struggling man

a hard worker, a toiler, a tumbler, a dancer

A writer, a poet, a lord of his own world

He turns up the sound, he cranks up the bass

He shakes his head and his hands in the rhythm

the unified orchestra orchestrated by the grandest

the grandest musician of them all, the creator of everything

the poet falls in love with the rhythm, rhyme and meter

the writer falls in love with the words and;

how they weave into one another

the toiler claps his hands with the beat, dusting off dirt from his hands

the hard worker stands up and stretches into a neat arc, relaxing

The dancer waits for the bass to drop and then backflips in the air

the struggling man is redeemed in his strife; salvation is his! He’s saved

From the wreckage of his life; Icarus comes down and hands him wings

Together they fly away into the sky, away they fly into the sun

And it doesn’t melt the wax on their wings

Because this time, they were born with wings

these were not engineered appendages

but wings of angels, wings of demons, wings of wyverns, wings of dragons