In my dream you are singing! Your voice starts from a secret whisper full of

breath and promise, rising to a plaintive melody that tugs at my grounded

heart. And then I am lifted like some effervescent butterfly of sound, gliding

as a song in night air.

I am your notes, weightless and pure.

In the daytime walk around world, you don’t/can’t/won’t sing while I struggle

to be the Artiste of Control as in “musician.”

As in less artifice, more art. From the heart. Sure.

More Art From the Heart?!

Clever? Maybe. But that’s the artifice in daylight that keeps me grounded, afraid

to be “naked and open” and way too unsure in a “fig leaf of honesty.” So I step

out in some double-breasted suit of “clever.” Avoiding the truest point. You

might be impressed and amused but not touched by my heart. My words and my

music always think they’re getting away with something.

This yearn for approval is my chain to the earth.

Normally I can’t hear the rhythm of my heart over the sound

of my own prattle.

Until the dream.

A new career floating as a champagne bubble with acoustical properties. I serve

as a note in a song from your heart.

And suddenly I can hear my own.

Oh! This is awake!