Will it hold my spirit
as it climbs?
My soul,
as it rides this curl of smoke
that creeps up the thatch?
Pure, rain-washed,
prodding the murk,
probing Erebus,
sowing light.
Vaulted by this rhapsody,
a web of notes, strong,
within me,
against the Wind.
Will it
hold my spirit?
Will it
my soul?
As Visions lay, cremated,
wombed,
by impotent ash;
longings withering in
the stale breath of years
as I lay, snared
by dreams unlived.
Will these offspring crumble too,
a specter
of bygone years?
Will the footprints grow sun-baked
with no sprout of green?
Therein,
is the dream that strains,
the stealth,
that stumbles in - unbidden,
to pull the silent strings,
to birth the notes, to
rapture me.
