Be a bird even if not heard
Be the light even in the night
Be alone even on your own
Be bright even if not right
Be simple even in the jungle
Be butterfly even when hard to fly

Greek god Apollo
Of archery and healing
Poetry and songs

His sun chariot
Shines flaming with rays of light
Ignites the blue sky

The god's golden lyre
Ethereal melodies
Sound as each string's plucked

His arrow flies true
Shot straight from the golden bow
Apollo doesn't miss

His wise Oracle
Sits on the seat at Delphi
Giving good counsel

His loyal children
Blessed with sight and healing gifts
Bring him much honor

The Greek marble gleams
As sculptors try to capture
The god Apollo

Some sounds do not belong to instruments.
They live just after.
Or just before.

The echo the piano makes when no one is touching it.
The hum of a string not struck
 but shaken by something nearby.

The part of a voice
 when the singer forgets they’re being heard.

Sometimes the most important sound
  is the one that wasn’t played
    but was felt
      in the hand that almost moved.

There is a kind of music
  that only exists
    inside the listener.

I’ve heard more truth
 in the seconds between chords
 than in the chords themselves.

Because those seconds
    aren’t performed
    they leak.

And maybe that’s where the music
  stops pretending
  and becomes real.

I write on paper,
A lot more,
Since the last six months,
It feels better,
Than staring down a screen,
Where I tie my artistry,
To the last echoing words,

I wish I let them pull me out,
Of all this,
Much sooner.