Miestro
Miestro
With a flick of my wrist
The crescendo builds.
With a open palm to the ceiling
The drums pick up.
Swoop down with both hands, then up
And the strings begin to play.
The people behind me, silent in observance
But me, I have the front row.
I am the Miestro.
Copyright © Brad Nicolas | Year Posted 2015
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