the universe is made of music,


well-tempered tunes in mystic tonality,

words that mean more than words,

little bits of melody,

crafted together in moving harmonies,

mortal moods in all their modalities,

black and whites in their mutuality,

in this key or that,

half-steps and full,

words that are silent when left upon the page,

they must be played,

in airborn life,

if they are to become words of art,

for the universe is made of music,



like a stretching, daring, twice born Monarch,

such is the callow poet,

a mighty Monarch letting go its final grasp,

caught in the daring wonder of its first flight

away, away from its chrysalis,


as if opening gateways of imagination,

into worlds that might be known,

to make the windows disappear,

to stroll

the winding pathways to heaven's doors,



along the turning, twisting road

through the field of  growing questions,

until finally understanding

the beauty of not yet understanding,

the way,

the tao,


a Monarch on a voyage

upon an airy sea of crystal words.


from thee to me

to thee again,

c3lady, this she sees,

the written word

is an I and Thou,

a sacred vow,

to carry soul, from soul to soul,

across the chasms

of loneliness,

heartfelt messages

carried by paper sparrows

through storms of fear and winds of fret,

to the distant shore of thee,

she teacheth me,


she teacheth me.


The End

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