Groping for words about H's demo tape

My brother writes music
And sometimes the shapes
Are like the sea
And sometimes they are the fat red
Of oil paint straight from the tube.
Sometimes they are like wires of light
Scribbled in my head,
Or a rubber ball
Bouncing with a sound
Like the taste of plum juice.
Sometimes the quiet bits
Are like cool shadows
Falling over sunbeams
At others
The hanging gap before waves break
On a rock.
Always, I am lost in admiration
At the magic he finds
In the darkness of his mind