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The Note
Lump of nothing, unmade and unrecognized
Chosen with no reason nor logic
This muted joy with no meaning has fate
It will be heard without a voice
Whittled away are the shreds of imperfection
Shapes show under the bulk but quickly hide
It stays a mystery yet oddly familiar
Stubborn to a point it waits to be found
Honed, POUNDED, refined, SMASHED
Woven into poetry its form starts to take a recognizable … what?
A middle with no beginning or an end with no preface
It will be heard no matter how broken… it grows
It looks up! You will know it’s beauty!
No longer hidden it rises, the perfume filling the waterways with decoration
You recognize it as a clump but have always known
Its hold on you as its parent as yours as its creator
Many hear the message without understanding
Passions rise without knowing a true reason
A consistent melody wells up armies of faithful
Taken for granted the story is told cheaply for profit.
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