Song

“There is music that haunts every soul,”

he tells me, hands shaking with intensity.

I am inclined to believe him,

for I have seen--

I have heard!

such a thing.

“It is muddled,”

he says,

“we’ve fucked it up.

But it’s there.”

I lean in;

we are on the verge of greatness

with thoughts such as these.

“Our creator sang it out,

it is in our very being;

we commune together,

make music through life.

We point back to him.”

A surge of marvel pulses through me.

My blood tingles—

there are notes in my veins;

he is singing my song.

It is the song of the artist:

of the understood,

the misunderstood.

Of those who see,

touch, taste, and feel

the delicious sensation—

an artist’s symphony,

a creative’s quartet.

I smile back at his passion,

for it swims around me in

contagious wonder.

It is good to be alive,

to feel such things as these.

I hear the continuing song,

join in glorious harmony,

vocal chords vibrating with warmth.