Sometimes songs are that quiet on the outside.

Start right here, now. The texture on the top unfurling layer of your rhythmic heart is the first petal, utterly available. Generous.

Take a wiff. Touch it to your lips.

"The work of shining, the work of shining, the work of letting yourself know. The work of shining, the work of letting yourself go. And he points himself north, and he takes himself forth. And he hears the eagle crying as he walks, he walks along."

Silence emerges like it's the only truth.

Stop to listen. Stop to listen.

Power down the firewalls, open up the caged jaws that masticate, satiate, and instigate freedom.

Despair is the enormous sound of being locked underground for fear of life's reverberation.

I have arrived at the bridge of no return,

when once traversed will lead to a truer home.

Strange beauty to behold this final step,

both perfectly called for, yet subtly pressed,

like a wildflower between two dated pages of a book,

somehow retaining its hue.