Between night and morning I hear a silent symphony,

the whistle of freight trains.

Like the sirens song, beckon me to distant shores.

Over the miles they whisper my name on diesel soaked melodies calling me.

Calling me out, into the uncertain.

Thoughts radiate incandescent.

Luminous poetry, at times incomprehensible.

Portals in rhythm with the beat of foreign passion,

ache to be released, to sing free.

My heart hears the trumpeters call,

piercing the swirling cacophony.

Life’s anthem returns in a festival of music.

A distant voice from within, from without, begins to rise above the din.

Ache with me. Speak to me. Greave for me.

Am I conductor or orchestra now?

I enter the empty space of eternal night and find only a single pure note.

Wash over me, cleanse my sins and renew my spirit.

I am Atlas reborn.

The painted dome sparkles overhead, slowly arcing toward inevitable morning.

Orpheus picks up his lyre, to soon the approach of dawn.

The scale creaks to adjust.

The solitary harmony stumbles into dissonant chorus.

Darkness to light blinding. Purpose to confusion,

yet I remain resolute.

The musician is here inside,

silently waiting my baton to begin.

I breathe metronome hours.

Savoring the excitement-strength.

I soar above, like a pristine pure songbird

binding all into a bouquet of emotion.

The screeching wail of ordinary will be silenced anew,

Between night and morning.

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