I strum the guitar and sing with exuberance,

all concern burnt away by the fire of my ardor.


A voice penetrates my song—needling, sharp,

“That is wrong!”


All music stops.

Anger sparks within:

If that’s how it must be, then I won’t sing at all.


And so the whole world ceases its tune

and instead lives in the mechanical crank

of mind’s fear.


The dancing stops too,

the twirling, skipping and reeling,

replaced by a march to the dirge of cautious steps.


I call out to the True Musician,

feel the needle lift from the old,

scratched vinyl.


A sweet ditty begins,

sung by the trio of love, wisdom and power.

I tap my foot to this new beat.


Then the first strains of a symphony intone,

building to include all the sounds,

the tuba, violins, and drums.


I pull out my guitar and play with abandon.

knowing that when I’m immersed in this theme,

the entire Universe harmonizes with me.

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