A symphony of souls where strings and beats guide emotions, a gathering of echoes that paints silence with sound.

I can be wrapped in feathers, or a song you're trying to remember. I'm a car that goes not so fast, yet still uses a lot of gas.

The sleeve that shrouds the hoard, Preferred to be ignored. A mist of sting or essence spent, I'm put out to pasture when my armor relents.

A short, hard, black, rubber cylinder Robin Goodfellow Append re for what a lemon does to your lips

A musician that travels the land. In a large band, some of us may greedily jump and fly and bring despair.