Horse heads tucked away
beneath your sheets
pigs root in the grass and the goats gently bleat.
All is quiet on the farm tucked in the valley
and in the small shack you built on the edge of the property,
with its round door you painstakingly framed,
it it beautiful
Barefoot in overalls your day is encompassed with sweet earth
and ever ripening carrots
it remains is beautiful
Armed with an 8 track recorder, a guitar, banjo and mandolin
you slowly construct the simple yet elegant notes
that speak volumes and leave those who listen
wondering where this noise came from.
You explain to them the unawares of the answer
you try to explain the movement
the feeling
the science behind the notes
they do not understand.
Precious few do
But thats okay
For the few that do it resonates to their core
makes them wonder
dream
appreciate
the hours spent and lost.
The timelessness,
the harmonics,
the ever lengthening prose that is engrained within the
Like that of a fine wood
much goes into the tight construction
and to make something truly astounding
it takes special care

So you work for a year or two in attempt to skull your way through the still waters
of the soul
to find the long forgotten island where the compositive chest full of you buried creativity lays
One may hope that this place truly exists
that somewhere deep inside there is the key to opening the box of your dreams
hopes
musings
To understand there way there one must not look within
but outward
towards sky
The bounty the world prescribes will overflow the chest you find
To sit
to think
an introverted mess
a blotched paper with ink