Ever hung on my own strings,
A puppet of bare inspiration,
It's faint echo far off sings,
Plumbing out a pleasant agitation,
To grasp a fleeting melody which comes in part,
I will learn my hands again and take the strings.

I'm in that heavy room again,
The rain becomes something deep - profound,
Kilometers above pressing down and down...
Until the rumble is synonymous with air,

It becomes to me a heavy stillness,
It becomes to me as quiet chorus,
It becomes to me as toil of days and long spent hours,
It becomes to me a wettened stone,

The room three quarters lit,
Makes friendly company with air,
Onwards they tug the space without a care,
Until the dimming is synonymous with air,

It becomes to me a watching father,
It becomes to me as expectation of my own,
It becomes to me as cloudy reminiscence of this heavy room,
It becomes to me a passing place I care to be,

I care to be without the lightness every while,
I care to see the buckled genius in crouch,
I care to taste the fruits of work come sprout,
I care to know this heavy air and know its weight.

Writing for the discipline,
To ensure I make at least one thing,
To ensure I tackle tactics of creative sort,
Writing so my mind is taught,
To think along these different lines,
To think upon my gifted humanity sublime.

Rightly ordered,
And you snap everything back into place,
Molding and crafting your body,
Giving us a little more space,
And your breath flows in to open lungs.