How still the sticks on drum kit lie,
Like spoons in a frozen cup,
Until the drum beats need be played,
Then a flash as drums erupt.
Flashes shoot high in the sky,
As from a lightning flame,
They scatter the stars asunder,
A corpus of music proclaim.
In the end the sticks lie still,
Quiet like a mountain stream,
Without your hands to guide them,
Lie dormant in coffin’s dream.
Ronald Whetsell's Creative Writing and Poetry Blog 