Della verità scritta
Music to the songwriter is often a catharsis of his innermost being. Like a worm to a butterfly, we thrive on the wingèd freedom of truth. We endeavor to create beauty out of that which had been discarded, daring to dream with the audacity of hope, even amidst times of trial and great despair. Many have asked whence come these words which trickle forth from this heart. The meat of the matter is that I truly do not know. Sometimes it seems all I can do, to simply weep as a mere observer at the untold mysteries which unveil themselves through the seductive flow of the whispering Quill. This greying feather, having become the artfully pompous extension of my own spiritual hand. Aye, with a temperance heedless of warning, the beguiling ink would transcribe itself into the dominant hermaphrodite, languidly èn vogue, like the mistress of Kama, fearfully held within my tremulous grasp. As an angel swiftly fallen, seeming to know the truth of all matters once hushed in sub rosa, rendering in passing, the imagery it would so choose.. Wreathing, breathing rhyme and letter into the scroll and onto its papyrus with a soul staining transparency.
And so it is, the Quill takes hold of this Poet, and the man within becomes transformed, channeled, emoting truth with strange utterances and antediluvian scripts of ode, which oftentimes leave me deeply drained, and visibly shaken. Moreover, as with the fevered potency of a Valentine lover, after losing faith I would quickly find myself. Ablush.. Wanting… More….
At times it seems so overwhelmingly dark within this chasm that I wish myself accursèd of these dire convictions. I have prayed to a God who hears me not, that He would either rape from my tormented mind this prose of inky nuance, or choose rather to take from me this very life! To my shame, thrice have I attempted to exit stage left by my very own hand, yet thrice also have I failed in this lifetime alone. Perhaps there be some unfinished scripting, or a Poet’s Opus in the making..
I sense the preeminence of many a dimension rippling through these tempered veins. These are the hollows wherein I find myself craving to upturn this well, and spill its bloody ink! Oh’ to watch it ooze out, staining something other than these neatly spotted robes of many a color, no more! In deference upon other such moments, often after having suffered this troubled Poet’s lamentations, the Quill would pirouette into a turn of phrase which alights into effect just so, seductively emoting liquid lyr’ with the virtuous grace of a Sedona sunset, leaving me. Agape.. Breathless… Beyond the comprehension of any such immortal sketching.
Ah, then there’s the Muse. It is indeed quite indescribable when the lover allows my spirit to embody her, becoming as one flesh with her majesty. So many mysteries. So many letters as of yet left unwritten, songs unsung, melodies unstrung. I begin to understand her subtle movements at times, then again, I do not. She reveals herself unto me much as a song sung Solomon, threshing of scripture, wholly.. Found, within each everlasting breath, wherein she’s lost me yet again. She fascinates me with every new inflection and nuance of her graceful, elegant brushstrokes. Residing unfathomable within me, she is neither male nor female, neither husband, nor wife. She penetrates with light, whereas the Quill permeates the darkness. And yet, she is he, and he is she, just as they are we. For when they speak, they speak through me. Albeit I remain for all intents, a mere servant found at humility’s gate. A simple scribe, both humbled and haunted by the stirring of these opposing twin spirits. I write as one ill afflicted, yet as one reverently wading into the sacred waters of this proverbial Bethesda.
She often appears to me clad in flowing white homespun, upon the faceless sands of the hourglass. Indeed, I am in love with the Muse, although we have as of yet to fully consummate this carnal wonder. She may never come to know just how I pine for the moments wherein she whispers in the chimes of tune, oh’ to hear her calling out my name in rhyme, weaving through this Poet’s loom..
How I long for the echo of her softly spoken voice, where, with a subtle smile or slight play on words, she would feign dance graceful in the moonlight, slaying me so very tenderly, as I give in to the honey milkèd lure of expectation’s delight!
I have seen a vision, and I have dreamed a dream. I now stand erect as one righteously accused, guilt ridden, yet somehow forgivably unforgiven. I have bitten deeply with bloodthirsty abandon, having plundered with a passionate hunger, her forbidden fruit. Held of my own free will, since the very eve upon which I had been so moved to these tears of release, I have become forever changed. My very inspiration having become defined by the moments before, and the breathlessness after being so romanced of the Muse. I will continue to speak her truth, so long as she will have me. Hence, should she choose to loose the sacred binding, or pray clasp shut this book of celestial whisp’ring, perhaps only then shall I duly cease to shudder with this inward sighing. Resounding cries of a madman lost in this wilderness, wherein I find myself shoeless, and very much alone.
Yea, should this romance ever ebb its flow, I may yet breathe, and might yet stir, although I should speak as I would write.. for I would speak, and write… no more.