Glamored, distracted by noise of realm
Could you still hear the pulse of the calm?
Listen! It's lire... On Multiverse Cross,
Phantom, or messenger, merchant of odes
Gives all-aethereal souls to words, -
And they escape him, in manners of birds,
Raising to clouds, falling on us, -
To sit on the shoulders, on windows and cups.
Memory - to one, a portrait - to the other,
Beauty surrounds the third with no armour.
Harmony florishes, plotted by Gods,
Sweetly intoxicating the fourth.
Force-field of sounds charges and heals...
It never mattered, you're millionth or fifth:
Summoned, disarmed, and, as candle, you're lit, -
Glass-like, we're born to gently be filled, -
Flow merged After with edge of Before,
Stitching the gap to be growing no more.
Left, we awakened... The street was no same.
Peaceful and whole, - to follow new lane.