Demiurge

Writing writing writing

just notes

staff and sheet

Dead already as the leave the page

That words are a prison

a melody's mold

Why then the need?

To build babel again and again

To what heaven aspires?

What manner a faith that refuses its grave?

Perhaps bodies were always flawed vessels for light

Made to be fuel, and burned up

Maybe love is to give flesh just the same

To breathe dance into dust from one's own