Music

Exploring in time, your memory
recalled the beat of those notes
that shattered old harmonies
to force upon us a warped rhythm of the hours.

Poetry held no purchase then,
life pressed down with such weight that
the word lay mute, bewildered by the pulse of things.
The chords sang out novelty and
the echo of your swelling voice bred ambitious polyphonies
that summoned the reborn spell.

Time, a stable prison, merely imitated
the melodies and echo of that age
still reverberates through dreams and broken promises.
We are now you and I in the prelude
to some old saying that listens
among whispers for the word grown timid,
stripped of the boldness
of that rhythm, fierce and torn,
that shored up the foundations of my art.