A caged bird... lays its egg
Sits in pain with a broken leg
It sings its song for all to hear
Knowing well that death is near
The egg hatches and from the shell
A tiny beak who's life is well
It wakes one day its mother gone
The body buried beneath the lawn
The young bird sits quiet now
A single tear upon its brow
Silence falls admits the room
It sits in wait within its tomb

We strings of
parallel animations
stand      apart
even if only by the
merest measure;
howbeit always of the
same instrument,
and we are eminent in the
Grand Design.

                          So as the human race                                                      
resonates
                    -frequently to the same tune-
we try to stay in time.

A silvery music
plays unerringly
when the
softly strummed
strings ring
in
harmony:

but if
as a
note sustains
and bends
we hear the cry
of
waning demons
and agents of evil
that shriek
in discord
and in strife
and in
dark echoes
of din,

we leave
them
to haunt
the arteries
of Hell
as a
furious ember,

while we
saved souls
rejoice
in the
pleasures
of
rapturous currents
ebbing
and
flowing
about
very elegantly,
like a swan

-a swan upon a perpetual
lake of timbre.