Is it love,

in every effort

each song we might sing,

the glorious wonder of a spring morning

when flowers bloom

air diffuses fragrant melody

while the world all around

seems eternally happy

even the sadness of a quiet alarm

that reality of the human condition

seems maybe, just a tad, perhaps only for a moment,

encompassed in our own

quiet rhapsody.

The pleasure of which,

to know eternal grace

-amongst the purge and glutton of our wasteland-

we can find ecstatic release.

How do we get there on a consistent basis

or is that part of the puzzle

the building block,

the needed accentuate variable,

is that why we sometimes feel the pain of

a graveled road crawing and snagging and bleeding our bodies …

When we can laugh at skies sullen,

smile within the culture of a hopeful demise,

when while the world around us crumbles in philosophy,

reality,

perhaps than asking for too much,

we might just be –

the music begins, listen.