For Him, Terrapin Architect of Sound Castles;
Him, Creator, of Myth and Truth and Fantasy;
For Him, Builder, Maternal Sheather of Spirit.
With Stoic Grace He raised His Fortresses -- raised them
With chords arching, slipping into someplace nowhere;
Lines meandering and glistening internal time;
Electrified paths, dirty blue, enfrenzying blood;
Melodies, honey-dripped, soft and oozing into
open
spaces
where notes can tickle and cascade the soul
exploding and reassembling self
where dissolving infinity rides on waves
where the maze seems finally won.
And the Terrapin Architect, though gone, is still
creating still
creating
still
still
© 1998 Nick Pici, all rights reserved
