Only music makes me breathe more so than
any body-weaving skinsome love or
other form of nature pain relief.
Without the frequency of sound abounding
round the chambers of my aural sensitivity
I wilt and lose my verdant leaves —
my fronds turn dirty brown,
my shoots for quavers grieve,
my sap no more will bleed,
my roots will no more feed down
through the beauty-bounty broken ground
to home themselves in cleansing earth and clay.
Only music makes my blues and multibruises go away.
Only music gives me light more so than
even suns, or psychotropic inner-sightful
sanctuary’s snowflake whiteful wistfulness.
Without the resonance of tone enphoning
through the drizzle of my joyful cellulance
I wane and forfeit vibrancy —
my dreams turn slenderful,
my hopes wear sackcloth’s grey,
my aspirations fade,
my anchor will not grapple
in the cleanly dirt beneath my feet
where all my drenchsome tributaries thrive.
Only music can empower me to full remain alive.
The music which I voice of here invades my soul
not only from the sounds upon my ear
but also from the temple places deep within;
where gladness needs no pseudonym,
where yearnings can’t be mutineers —
lusty passions never interfere
with the harmony of discipline.
There is no “if” when asking whether
music (through its tidalwavely soar)
could be the greatest food of love.
For dancing hieroglyphics on the stave
is embrocation sent to drench my unseen core
in starlit kisses blown from heaven above.
© Alan Morrison, 2016