On Music

I saved a goblet of turquoise ink, virgin blue,
In it are words, rhymes and epics scattered.
Find me a Morrison or a Barret. Bring me
a Dylan who'd rather be silent contented
waiting, anticipating in the Hyacinth house
Than put on a treacherous mask on a dour face,
And philander with the mistress of shame.


I have some strings of Yew, unmisted like new
whiskers of a handsome cougar.
Adorn they shall the bows of Rob and Jimmy.
The notes they contrive shall Glimmer in Waters
that seep through to revive the forgotten.
Here comes the sun! But I liked Waiting for It all this while.


Each Ray bestows its light upon a singularity.
And they coalesce to make a Rhapsody.
Yes the river knows, it remebers the summer,
that of a year 'less' known. When sunlight shone,
through the dress of a maiden in white.


Though I cannot petition the lord with prayer,
I can beat the cymbals of hope. Or would he?
Well he's busy with his Battles More than Ever!
Or is he intoxicated far away over the Hills?