A Genius

He was a genius, a writer,
Composer of worlds,
Just a piano, some paper,
The notes would start falling,
Writing was his passion,
And playing; his calling.
He thought of life and music,
As one entity-
Conjoined, combined, for all to see.

And when he played,
When he picked up his cello,
Everything stopped,
And time would stand still.
People were drawn to him,
Against their own free will.

And the music came alive,
You could see it in his eyes,
The burning passion that coursed in his veins,
And escaped through his fingers,
To slide with the bow and dance on the strings.

And in the happiest songs,
The music would jump and swirl,
His fingers seemed to fly,
And listeners would laugh,
Without knowing quite why.

And in sadder times,
When the song was slow,
The music, it mourned; seemed to weep,
You could see it in his bows tender sweep.
And those who heard,
They wept as well,
For they felt the pain,
Could imagine the loss,
It seemed their hearts were tempest-tossed.

And sometimes these songs,
Mirrored some inner strife;
Bad days and worse,
The twists of life,
Would cause him to question,
All he held true,
Yet none of it mattered,
For in his heart, he knew-

He played for the music, the music alone.
It kept him alive,
Taught him to love,
It lived in his soul and flowed through his blood.

*Please comment and/or vote it would mean a lot to me!!
Thanks!!