He drags the bow,

Steady, strong, and slow,

To its freedom.

And in the air, silence.

There are, maybe, one hundred souls

Sitting together in a long quiet

Before the shredding storm of song,

The hairs from some magnificent horse,

Breaking free, too. They linger, they long

To dance, eyes closed,

Raptured to a heaven,

The songs of suffering angels,

The way he sings the cello,

Transformed

To its ways, its sways,

Its dangerous foreboding,

Its celebration,

Its redemption.

—-

Six Months Later:

—-

I still find delight

In the memory of wine, music,

That candlelit night

Under a rumbling train,

Where we released our hopes to soar,

and even our mutual pain, with song;

Captured, for a moment, then gone.

Like fallen angels, we fell,

To a silent night, a silent world,

Perhaps, indistinguishable from hell,

Except in those rare moments.