I found a song for you, my muse.

A song to lighten sadness and bring

gladness to your soul.

A song as sweet as a nightingale’s trill

calling for her mate so late grey misty

shadows fall on the garden gate.

The song rides the wind; rustles in the trees.

The song tantalizes changes as it pleases

with its many disguises like a fog in a storm.

The old man hears it walking a dusty road.

He suddenly remembers all the train rides he rode.

The mad man in the dark hears it in his soul.

It cures his torment then lets him go.

A song so sweet, it will make you weep.

A song never written coming from eons

when the earth was asleep.

This song sung before he went to war.

Sung again when he was no more.

A dying bird hears it and flies again.

Broken wings are mended in the end.

Graves are for Hamlet and ghosts of

your past…don’t let it last…listen!

This song is for the living not for the dead.

Dead men still linger in women’s heads.

Forget the past, you must let it go.

Sorrows and regret never move on

they stay to torment till you hear the song.

You can hear it in the raindrops on

red tin roofs. You can feel it as you

touch wet ferns in the  wild woods.

It giggles in streams and thunders

with the ocean’s steam.

It catches you by surprise just when

you thought all of it was lies.

You can hear it in your sleep.

It lifts you to the clouds.

It sings in children’s laughter

as a clown grows grim and loud.

It trails into bar rooms but mostly

hits deaf ears. Occasionally,

a cowboy hears it and gets up to

cheer. It sings to him of campfires

and friends that loyal stay. It makes

him miss the open range; the cattle

dog he trained. He loves the sound

of rain drops, tin cups, and bawdy

stories told late into the night;

the smell of sage and leather:

he leaves to make things right.

This song is all the poetry ever written.

It shays from the Dark land on black

December nights.

It lures the desperate sailor

out into the  light.

You cannot rage, now you know the song.

Your craft will sing forever free.

Someone said in the midst of ennui;

life is just a hand full of dust.

I know better than to cast out my soul.

Life is a song for me.