the whispers of true art
his voice subdues its pace.
He speaks in melodies
intense, in soothing tone,
and on a golden fleece
fine words are resting prone.
No ear can now ignore
what man and God created,
received by every pore
all souls become sedated.
Eyelids soon fail to carry
the simple load of lashes,
at first they blink and tarry
remember happy bashes.
Each limb feels warm and pleasant
‘umm’ goes the beating heart,
from Priest to simple Peasant
they float, for this is art.
Sweet sounds drift through the layers
of human skin and bones,
as all become keen players
and copy precious tones.
A poet in hypnosis
holds many thousand hands,
walks through a sweet psychosis
that mankind understands.
A poet uses senses
deep eyes, sharp ears and lips
he walks through all defenses
and sleeps on lonely ships.
You see a true reflection
inside your glass of wine,
firm stare in your direction
as if to say ‘you’re mine’.
A metronome of fingers
blood rhythm of the ages
the music always lingers
no words shall live in cages.