Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Before music was a poem—
Writ in an empty black book
And then a guitar played me,                              
The world was rung in stars,
Simple and real as spun light
On a staff of gold in the dark.

After— music was a poem,
Old as a birth from the lamb
And memories calling forth,
From landed dreams awoke,
Everything before led me on,
This journey into bright morn.

— The End —