The Melody Man

"Yes, but how do I create this type of music?"

He asked of the patron to his right with a

drunker slur if only to converse in the humid, evening air.

"To make music,
music that truly speaks from some other place and time,

like conversing with the eagles high above of all the ages,

into the depths of the deepest mines,

I can tell you what you must do,

but you must listen carefully as a

soul listening to the eternal design."

This mysterious man with the fine tailor suit leaned in, continuing with eyes filled with fires green and spectacular,

and he said,

"To make music for the ages,
you must have a woman yearn for you like some hysteric, waking dream of want and need,
I mean, my friend, it's where
she seems as if her only preoccupation becomes minutes of reflection, then silent,
and the music echoes, lessens, and your hearts just beat
-slow like a moonlight flow-
glowing upon her red warming cheeks
urging you on to peak, to rampage, earn and seek
as lips speak in many dialects unending diatribes taking weeks of
scribbling onto pads made of bright colors like autumn leaves,
and you notorize your tribute and be
as yet another church left to burn on the plains of Eve
but if only to paint some pyre with an image scorched upon her

sweating, sultry temples rustling about like torrent seas."

The preacher man went on
And the fledgling artist yawned,
slipping off his shoes to rub his chaffing toes,
and they continued on,
" For even in the heat of the moment,
Even in the throes of a discussion about a friend's unforgivable deceit,
You must simply know by the tone of her response,
that it is now the time of the midnight eve
her perfume speckled on the front of her wrinkled blouse
her dress pressed against leaves an imprint of a mourning tree

And you will see, as the notes are sent into space to sway your ears,

you will only hear each other breathe

and you will see that it is she, the wandering phantom,
speaking over centuries
holding scepters unlocking secrets
into the beats of the betrayed
into the hearts of the lame
the shameful language calling to, simply be, be the spirit of the composer

be the only donor of a song to help her grieve

while your head is left to the pillow as it schemes for more ways to hold

her waist, her fingers, her sweet music,
only then will you hear the music as she becomes a banshee shriek.

And you are there, and only then will you hear,

the music of above all ages and then sow with conspiring seeds."

The preacher slammed his hands on the table,
and the young man was off in his own world, trying to believe,
until the hovering figure billowed out his mouth,
only then did his advisee hear the woman speak.