And So

And so it is,
The divine comedy,
That I should sing to you,
My voice is terrible,

I have no rhyme, no meter, No sense of style,
No warmth of voice,
No quality of timbre,
No redemption whatsoever
in all of me,

And like the infernal scum of pond
do I float in your eternal eddies,
Forever drawn by your current
from the shores of deep and satisfying life,
I sing to you,
darling, sweetheart, lover,
You who once, a long time ago
Captured me, had my very soul,

Captured me,
Nurtured me,
Kept me forever,
Like a wounded bird in a cage,
To whom the skies mean nothing,
To whom eternity is held
in the dainty fingertips of thee who slides between the golden bars
to provide succor
and nourishment,
in whom I find
the universe of love,
foolish, worthless bird that I am,

I sing to you,
As does the broken player,
The bird in summer unloved,
As the wind in the chimes
Of an abandonned house,

An echo of
Self,
Of soul,
Of stupidity,
Of indignity,

I sing,
I sing to you
And for you
And of you I sing,

And the pasage of time
Should dull me before long,
But tonight my passion runs free,


You are mine