God's Cradle

The god about the microphone
strikes a chord of longing
he exhales the greatest
octave in the world
of the moment
and the crowds, they sway
and chant.
The god, who is big and
black and sweating
draws all the precious air
from his lungs again
and again
as the trumpeteer he
sounds his wild call
and the cellist she
strums a sublime shriek
that shears my soul
from my heart
and it in it's dazed freedom
the god grasps with loving hands
and his bellow is primal
and beautiful beyond recognition
a beauty not heard since
the days of Mozart
or David.
His bellow it takes me far away
to a quiet place
where I might roam
and the god
he takes me gently
into his great bosom and cradles
my timid soul
with sweaty palms
and loving breath
and deep murmurs
in a language which begets
a time of simplicity
and abundance.
I am taken
by the countless unheard wails
of the widows of the world,
and all others in agony;
and my head it fills
with sadness and ethereal ecstasy,
all that which I usually
hide in my feet or
the dusty corners of my
brain.
I am cradled within the
gentle hands
of the almighty
and with his melancholy passion
he frees me
of the notion that
it's all real
and he reminds me
that I am nothing
nothing
and that I am free
to accomplish anything.