A bump inside the rhythm was a strain upon the weave.
Beside myself with failure I readied myself to leave -
but there I halted curious, the song dead on the floor,
I found myself just wondering, although my throat was sore:
if there was any shape that could (hypothetically of course)
fit beside that little blip, compliment the force.
So I turned and with shaking hands drew it out in fear
and there I found to my surprise music to my ears.
It just kept on unfolding. Each crease another hinge.
The spectacle expanded, my consumption a binge.
All ablaze with flawlessness the melody unpacked.
Painted with love lost in time and pain forever stacked.
Many runes and endless prose burned from every page,
overlapping metaphors the beams that hold the stage.
Sanded smooth impossibly the light stained liquid wept
scents of secret seasons I as a lonely child kept.
It connected points of light I tried for years to hide away,
unveiled harmonic riddles painting every answer gray.
Everywhere I thought to look another tower soared
data streams and silent beasts each miming every chord
and so I went on screaming painted songs until I slept
laughing as I dreamed of things so beautiful I wept.
I awoke to find myself singing a very different song.
Purposefully discordant - not too similar for long.
And so now whenever I find myself breaking that line in tune:
I dive right in and swallow it, to wane just like the moon.