When the young man arrived into town,
his throat was very dry,
So he wandered into the closest bar.

It was dark and dingy,
But at the same time vibrant and alive, For a band played in the back.

Just a few younger individuals,
Vibrant and lively,
Rocking as if playing for sold out Stadium,
Instead of a bar of six.

It was then that the young man had his idea,
Notes rushing to him like cascade,
And the realization that music was where he was happiest,
It's what fill the hole in his heart.

He left the bar, knowing what he had to do,
His passion was reignited,
The flames fanned.

A goal now set,
Young man went to the bus station and continued West.

The desert was hot,
The boys feet ached,
His legs protested,
The sweat stung his eyes.

The young man stumbled,
The heat waves of the road throwing up a curious pattern.

It was then that the young man spotted it,
Just beyond the next hill.

He stood up,
Wiping the sweat from his brow and forged on.

The cedar had become an iron oak.

When he arrived though,
If only in fleeting flashes,
But still it was there,
When the instrument was in the young man's hand,
It calmed the storm that raged behind his eyes.

The pain dulls over the years,
As the boy becomes a young man,
And the young man decides to follow his dreams,
He runs away,
With only a guitar in his hand,
A backpack of clothes,
And his car,
He rides out West,
Like the pioneers who came before,
A musical gold rush.

As a youth grows,
Taller and taller,
Like The Cedars of my youth,
But also rougher and rougher.

To those who have known him from before can recognize him,
But to others he is a shadow of his former self.

There is however,
One thing,
That has ever remain the same.
With the instruments in his hands,
his eyes soften,
the creases easy bit,
The weight is lifted from his shoulders, And even a smile can be seen.
As he hears from the Allfathers of the Waves, Summoners of the sound.

Crash!!!!
As a boy regains consciousness,
All the boy can see is the blood mixing into the muddy water,
As the rain begins to fall.
The boy scrambles are round  the twisted wreck of the car,
From which he had been thrown from,
To find the one he loved in terrible condition.

The boy begs her to wake up, but she refuses to open her eyes,
A small trickle of blood crawling up her forehead,
As she hangs lifeless from her seatbelt.

Driving down the road,
Going much too fast,
One hand on the wheel,
The other around the shoulders of the girl he was with.

They love each other,
At least they think they do,
Their adolescence making them believe that they'll beat the odds.

A turn arrives just as the boy looks away, And suddenly they're airborne,
Just as soon as they're in the air however,
The forces of the world take hold as the car comes down hard.

The boys has aged,
On the cusp of becoming a man,
Old enough to drive but not old enough to vote.

The child has improved in eight years,
The sound comes vibrant from the boy, Although it is still a hair twangy,
And the timing off just a bit.

He has passion,
Though,
Which makes the imperfections that much better.
The sound Echoes in on itself when it bounces off the cement walls,
And the closed wooden door of the garage.

All of the boy's work producing an emotional and raw sound,
Which flails about,
Enticing others to do the same.

It's Christmas time,
A young boy unwraps a large gift,
And sees the object inside,
It has a basic color scheme,
It's strings beautiful and bright.

The boy strums his small hand across,
Summoning sound from the hollow instrument,
It's a cheap thing,
Just in case the guitar is abandoned by the boy,
But alas a bond is formed,
And the boy's life is set into motion.

.
Sometimes the body is contagion
To the soul.  Stars in their mission fall
To seed the fertile flesh, ignite
Blue waters of sulfureous hearts,
And so the flash is set to cancel
In the flood.  

Sometimes the lip of soul onto seal
Will not hold, before he first knocked
And let flesh enter, thorny pegs
Pricked nerve and pierced bone on his climb
To the rose, yea, some stars odd as
Meteors crash.

In the swan-sea, song-sangy-frame of crib,
Rough hewn words bent mold to scrape, like
Blasted coral, stood half-submerged
Amid sea and sky, for between the leaves,
Behind the eye, there are little stars
Shining like existence.

In a circle world he fashioned green
Blazons about the darkling day,
Fostered by celestial navigation,
Wrote a language for music, on a map of love
And charted the force of green in a wind-
Rose of discovery.

Sometimes the soul is not contained, it
Bursts in silent sound like well water
From the source.  And of men in streets
He saw the pennies in their grumble
Eyes, and of love and its course he rubbed,
Tickling dim stars.

It was his thirty ninth year in that fall
To heaven when the steeping cell,
Refused to push in its tide.  Homeless
And free on scaffold of bone the middling
Man retracted from sun to sink
With the moon, turn-tiding-toward sea
Like a changeling.

And as ever, nor often, unwavering eyes
Sprout through shifting grains.  And as he spoke
Quite rimless, Dylan Thomas was petrified
In undying light, and solid set within a rill
Of reef sparkling in concert betwixt gas
And sea, so becoming in purple sleeves,
This constellation of mute singers all,
Dried five-fingered-fish, bright embryos
Returned to the shell, they burn between the leaves,
Beset the grounded skies and show sprite flashes
In the dark where He has left his imprints, burning
Above and plastered below.  The first rock stars!

and made faces at the priest
while he broke bread.
Surprised, he laughed like a king
for the jester in the pew.