mythrandirs

i.
sonata in f minor, she bleeds
across staves, awakening keys
and chords that lay
dormant for far too long.

the mournlands echo through
in exotic fugues, she knows
exactly what it means
to break and ache and never be
quite the same again.

ii.
sonetto di nuovo voce, he sings
a versified paean to the new morning, he brings
healing and light in his fingertips;
not just for others, but him,
oh battered soul, deprived for far too long.

a lonely girl reads and finds her heart
somewhere in the staves, she slips away
from sadness -- “sweetheart, find your star!”
She’s searching but maybe not
searching anymore.


iii.
to be or not to be, the question crosses
the 30/90 playwright at a junction in his life.
do i matter? do i have anything to say?

he writes and lights the stage
for other stars to shine, but he
wonders if he gets to shine, too.


iv.
weary myth-randirs, their eyes
absorb the world and look beyond;
mapping twinkles in tired eyes,
finding stars in sheltered places.

they write, sing, compose; graft
the divine verse into mundane days.
imagine a world sans sunlight, without voices
to pierce the smoke and smog.

celebrate the song of the wandering hearts.
they hurt and yet create so we might heal.