What tune is it?

Tell me– once the catalyst of sorrow

dulled to a numb ache, overshadowed

by the music that burst from your mind like

a snake waiting to strike–

How did you do it?

You look back.

Your ear to the crows call in the corner

of the mind, that dark space no one likes to name.

Who else could share it,

could plan the song,

and work lacking love into legend,

but the skilled lyre?

None but the knowing poet

who fails to fully turn death.

You are the man who plucks the string

and silent shade into eternal song.

Your hands never stop playing.

Your mind is ever turning.

Your fingers keep strumming

as they shed flakes of dirt.

You are the man

who knows well that

in death she is interchangeable.

Her grave your stepping stone.

Find the stanza, the verse

a seed fat on your tongue.

Let it linger, let it sit deep

in the warm cavern of your mortal mouth

and grow into legend.

Feel it root, feel it muster.

Your fingers, still stained and

flaking with soil.

When all their sense and senses

ask: what music did you whisper? What

words did you muster to turn

the gods like a wheel in your favor?

None care to know:

How does it feel to hold the braid of life

like a leash. What tune is it?