Sometimes music is the crowbar
which pries open my spirit.
Melodies warming the flowing
marrow in me.
Major and minor tones
plucking at tendons
under the surface
of leathered skin.
Each morning, creation
sings praise to all
the light by which I see.
There is joy in the squinting.
I feel the notes winged flight
on the scaled heights
of orchestrated air,
I knelt before The Musician.
“Will You play it again?
Tomorrow maybe?”
“My symphonies have no end,
you only need receive them.”
Gerald the Writer 
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