Rhythm the knife
  hacks eternity into Meter,
  sharpens Itself into Phrase.

Our Song of the Severed Soul.

One wide-open
   mouth sings the bewildering
   majesty of Silence.

Signal drowning in the noise.

A ****** of Shrewd
   crows peck out the eyes
   of an out-of-tune reality.

This Geometry of eclipsed lines.

Free from the bonds
   of Melody, liberated
   from the Staff, awakened.

My Song the Quiet of Forests

Interstices where no discord
   mars the naked Truth,
   nor dulls the timbres of Self.

Here shall I shout my ineffable Gladness.

Where the ear of no listener
   may its fairness tickle,
   nor its Word turn astray.

*The winds of my Flute
blow sweetest.