Way Yonder

Without a thought

any more fleshed out

than the fuzziest of vagabond dreams,

I started singing

a song that had not existed yet.

The verses were like

waves of Venice lapping at the edges

of stone and singing gondoliers;

the choruses were like the best violent love.

The words were sparks

and my voice worked through me

just as designed, but the music

was more than the sum of its parts,

gilt and grit and forest and sea.

I walked among trees and dreamt of rain,

enough rain to wash me out to sea

with ice and sun both.

We are of the elements

in the after times,

when violence has passed.