In this place there are only tones.
No bodily function yet movement
From thought that flexes
There are no nouns, only verb
Upon verb, Like fields and valleys,
The language spoken by
The dead, who have cast off all nouns
Is a landscape uttered here.
There are harmonics and rising pitch
That discords as pain, and accords
In this place there is only tone.
There is communion in notes with a
Melody of Meaning and it is possible
To touch another with the intention
Of a healing song.
Into this place, I unfold my wings of sound-borne light.