birth by sleep

a novelist, an essayist, makes a manifest dedication
that all should know how he loved his mother, his husband, his cat conferred with epithet and rank

a musician, if she sings, may sing directed song
artists paint and sketch the colors of their inspirations
composers have motifs and staves and tonal palettes and wings

but the player, simple player, is one among a thousand. this symphony, this stage construction, anonymous and black.

so i might speak to who inspires me
who calls me by the name of music
who sees the arch of my body instrument

those innumerable who have come to me and thanked me for living, for walking among them - not as though i am the messiah but as though i complete a perfect puzzle in their vision and if only i'd come back

they thank me, and i realize, well they should. for i have created me. i have brought this player to the fore, where to be thanked and praised and adored.

and then there is one in a black uniform that does not glisten, lest it betray him. one whose antics are thorns long twisted.

to be a strong musician is to be courteous and compassionate. politeness should rule no matter the truth.

he's not the cyclops; he's nobody.

but he is there. i hear the horn chorale and he is there.

and i sleep, at the arm of this immovable fortress of a man, knowing i will never be nobody. knowing his single eye is watching.

(please, pray, let us not compare religion - coincidence)

waking to this world in which i cannot help but fit, knowing i have been, in some strange way, born again