I am no golden instrument, just a faithful tuner.

When I see the lonely notes I gladly make them bridges.

Putting the damper on their empty halves

Saddened, taking pity on composers.

Broken chords in sharps and flats,

They play their songs on snapping strings.

Heavy keys, cracking horns, rusted knobs.

Sheets of music, a chorus of crying solos.

Choirs sing, they stand before the crowd.

They are judged and numbered one by six,

Though they sing in harmony,

Each will sing a different sound.

I do not shine, I cannot play a song.

A page-turner, I read the terrible trebles.

I hold the lines, so they hold together.

Finding eighths I make them whole.

Because I am being selfless
© theoriginofmagic