The Musician's Bleeding Fingers
A harp string plucked
is a real flower plucked
the thorn is a private concern.
Scaling Jacob's ladder of bliss
arpeggios, rambling roses,
no upper limit in the air.
As light chords rise, what covenant filled skies!
Confirmation from the chorus
all that rings true is agreeable to all.
And in the moment's silence between notes
measured minds orientate themselves.
Not compasses all pointing the same way
but each to face unique prospects.