To write again and find there peace,
Lost in the search that words do pull,
Pushing their way out of myself.
Another thought rushes to fill.
Its transient truth lasts until
We fish the past off of its shelf.
To write again and then release
Phrases pent-up in search of place
Destiny’s sequence finds what’s due.
Who knew that words could write themselves,
Fit so snugly like tiny elves,
Burrowing deeply, holding through?
To write again that silence cease
Engagement, the only option.
For Verdi, to farm is to compose
The soil flourishing each day
Each travail must complete its say
And in the singing find repose.
To write again, a worldly feast,
Notes choose themselves for spice.
They savor their harmonic aid,
They sit within the final score,
Connect the tinta we adore.
Sequences are found more than made.
To write again, lessen the words,
Peel and harvest the inner fruit,
Forego the ought of inflection,
Happen upon the apt by chance
Find the rhythm that dances dance
Seek the truth in misdirection.
To write again, stop editing.
Forget the words that stifle words.
Listen, but suspend suggestions,
Allow that which amplifies.
Even the judicial often lies.
Truths hide out within digressions.
To write again, pitch brave the voice.
Sing out your solos forcefully,
Embrace their opportunity.
Let high thrilling ornaments dare,
Make firm their when within the where,
Now’s the time for whatever must be.
