Sta.sh
A fountain that trickled water day in and out;
Birds that danced around orange cats;
Children laughing, screaming, as they danced around each other.
She, a musician.
She had a cello in one hand;
A flute in the other.
She wrote songs about laughter and dancing,
Each instrument complimenting the other perfectly.
He, a wordsmith.
He sat in a study day in and out,
Writing novels and poetry until his skin paled from the indoor light.
His hands were stained with the ink of tales and ballads written,
of adventurers more exciting than he.
One day,
In autumn.
Brisk fall leaves crunching on the cobbled streets;
Apples swinging from sunlit branches.
'Twas a scene that entranced both creative minds.
Songs flowed from the little house by the fountain;
Poetry recited from the shop inside the town;
The flowing words and notes collided halfway,
And they fit together so perfectly, no one would have known they were separate.
The wordsmith,
A lonely man.
He heard the deep cello being played, smooth as a river;
The sweet flute singing above the rooftops like a soft little bird.
He followed the siren that produced such lovely sounds.
He could feel the words seeping from every corner of the music.
The musician,
A dreamy girl.
She heard the rhythm of his words, and couldn't help but be amazed.
Everything he spoke was a note,
Dripping with emotion,
A song just waiting to be written.
The wordsmith, with his pale skin,
And the musician, who had dreamy eyes,
Found each other at the fountain,
In the middle of the cobbled streets.
The clattering of life in the town fell in to place around them.
The paintbrushes of words and music,
They complimented each other nicely.
For each the lonely wordsmith and musician,
For each the lonely wordsmith and musician,
found each other complete in the others arms.
Content 
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