the gift

The shapes traced like tempo
over the staff 8 colours strewn
we'd like it all to be simple
when we could be gazing at the moon

like clouds that right out arpeggios
matter sings along
placating our denials
transubstantiating our song

What more could we ask for
when we have strings in four : four

midas touch

automated
responding to this resposibility
sence of dignity
to hold my head high
to bow to my ignorance
modesty may comfort
but less and less
confront our arrogance
impermanance
reminiscint of my quest
relevant
wether ive seen, heard
or manipulated the stagnant
if at all it is any meens to stray from the impoverish