Music is madness.
It screams
Through seventeen
Forked tongues
And pounds
Its pig-skin urban drums,
Ordering on the
Machines of meat;
A soundtrack with
Samsaran beat.

Music is mournful.
It is the caw of the crow
‘Neath the stain of the sky;
The song of the wind
To squeeze truth
From your eyes.
It weaves woven silk of
What could be,
Pirouetting through the air
In a gorgeous despair.

Music is a ghost
That crawls on our skin,
Armed with gilded subterfuge
To bargain its way in;
To coil ‘round consciousness
In serpentine swathes,
Spreading its questions
With ephemeral grace;
Covering completely
Our naked cold
In a gossamer blanket
Of symphonic souls.

Music is a bird
That sings when I want
Booming its voice
From an amplified cage.

But bars soon will bend
As a zephyr distends,
Lifting me with
Wings full of holes.
Climbing the clouds
In communion I fly
Seeking infinity
As eyes drink the sky.