He smiles and plays all of these things
‘Til still a thousand-and-one serenely beating hearts, tremendously getting to tear their devoid emotions apart and placing them right back together again
Forever advantageous, these wicker-work keys do splay fair evenly
Upon a seemingly so wing and a prayer
Preposterously ready, sowing each musical seed on out there – tethered to a point
Incredibly instrumental ’til partly feeling all kinds of mental
The way it just needs to be
When will the magic ever let up
Never, ever indeed…
He breathes through these golden lungs, a monstrous and rather magical rung above
These puppet-like fingers adamant upon deliciously lingering, devoted to his particular cause – one evening in Amsterdam when it all starts to make eerie kinds of sense altogether
Call them his forever gloves, whatever
Mesmerisingly attached to gargantuan albeit childlike arms
Push comes to shove and we see all of it, every next tasteful bit
Surefire, carefully prying into your demonstrative everything
When we get to fall in-love with him all over again

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