The world you know in fragile octaves floats
Upon the tune of time and happenstance
Dark past and dimming future are the notes
No melody, but music formed by chance
And all that seems of purpose disappears
And all that's left is accident and whim
The music conjures forth your barest fears
A faithless, hopeless, blank, unholy hymn
A road, like printed note, provides no choice
It goes from here to there and never brakes
Your feet are now the instruments of voice
And you conduct the course the music takes
Command them now, the notes, the chords, the key
Become at last what you were born to be...
Sign up for exclusive content and updates and get your free copy of The Glen Headwood Show.