With poets' sinew, the dream I have will be
played like a harp until I wake.

Until the time comes
I hope one day...
the elixir that remains
in my mouth will last
until death comes.

The voice,
that dances amongst
the beating chambers
of your heart strings,

the harp’s tune;
now tickled,
notes reach
their staff to

descend
upon
their
bass.

Liquid silk drips from my fingers
My thirty eager fingers
Playing thirty eager chords
on my white and sprawling harp

Plucking at the strings
Like threads fine
silver and white
they shine
(it is night)

It is night and the world is dark
but for glimmering on my harp a single light
lamp like spotlight, hot overhead
i stretch my toes where they balance me on the ropes

sitting by cold glass
i watch the word go by
with my eight beady eyes
and wait for that promising fly
(it is night)

It is night and the word is still
but for my fingers plucking at the strings
of a heart-harp-home, contrast to my dark-clothed figure
silhouetted in the windowsill where i have a woven a tiny, quiet song

The symptom of an income
Harboring distrust

Bank accounts and whereabouts
Shoulder nod
Another facade
A deadly game we play

Forever young and steady
Regardless of the say

Can we talk tomorrow
It's better just that way

What goes on in your glowing head
when you sit in front of your harp
eyes wide shut your fingers thread
and pluck, syncing with our heart

the way you majestically play
fills my ears with angelic tones
stunned, I can't look away
from your heavenly flowing bones

Harp forged from Hephaestus' gold
pluck and pick easy as a river's flow
soft harmonies of Philip Glass enfold
and just for a moment, forgotten woes