The blind fanfare and open wonders there,
Those inner minds laid out in careful hands,
On brass on polished wood and metal pipes,
What esoteric ways to tame dear sound,
But it is not so tame when roaring in its rank.

Overstayed the day,
These petty games we play,
To pace about and find a want,
To prick the pride and find a font,
Which drips a poisoned brew,
Until we're spent: our energies few.

A year has passed by in my wake,
And poems flow like water now,
A closer friend to hear my thoughts,
Enshrine the days, imperfect jars,
For me to look and cobble back,
My days, their ends, their troubles, joys,
For me to hold a stack on stack,
Of tales of the wide land between,
Who I became and who I've been.