I am but a silent muso.
Literacy, my song.
Flow, my instrument.
I toss and turn with solidity in stance,
As my mind hurricanes through an abyss of chaotic order.
Practices played to bring me back to the verge of tears,
A doorway to the musical centre of creation.
A galactic hallway lined with walls of star dust taking shape of organ pipes.
The all knowing and all feeling in a space where no bounds are timed.
And the rise and fall of art to be felt and forgotten.
The pressured possibility, pressed upon a canvas of theory.
A dance at the centre, as the universe expands and constructs, reduces and collapses by my stroke.
My organs expressing splendor, simulatenousely splattered,
Across this space for you to marvel.
The life and death of my starstruck art.
Beautiful and brutal like gods who’ve lost their way.