MoMack Posted August 8, 2010 Report Share Posted August 8, 2010 Jerry, my friend,you've done it again,even in your silencethe familiar pressurecomes to bear, demandingI pull words from the airwith only this morningand part of the afternoonto compose an ode worthyof one so particularabout every turn of phrase,demanding it hit homein a thousand waysbefore making it his own,and this I can't do alone.Now that the singer is gone,where shall I go for the song?Without your melody and taseto lend an attitude of gracea lyric is an orphan thing,a hive with neither honey's tastenor power to truly sting.What choice have I but to dare andcall your muse who thought to restout of the thin blue airthat out of the field of shared time,a line or two might chance to shine --As ever when we called,in hope if not in words,the muse descends.How should she desert us now?Scars of battle on her brow,bedraggled feathers on her wings,and yet she sings, she sings!May she bear thee to thy rest,the ancient bower of flowersbeyond the solitude of days,the tyranny of hours--the wreath of shining laurel lieupon your shaggy headbestowing power to play the lyreto legions of the deadIf some part of that musicis heard in deepest dream,or on some breeze of Summera snatch of golden theme,we'll know you live inside uswith love that never partsour good old Jack O'Diamondsbecome the King of Hearts.I feel your silent laughterat sentiments so boldthat dare to step across the lineto tell what must be told,so I'll just say I love you,which I never said beforeand let it go at that old friendthe rest you may ignore. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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