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.
