Mozart

Were you here,
I would lay my hands
upon your cheeks,
lean my forehead
against yours,
eyes shut…
Like a mother to a child,
in hopes of taking
your torment from you;
Like a disciple seeking
contact with the divine;
Like a friend saying,
without need for words,
that I understand;
Like a child against
the door of a magic toy shop,
hoping to hear the gears
that churn out
such wondrous gifts.

Perhaps it is miraculous that God can turn dust into a living, breathing man. To me, it is a hundred times more miraculous that God can twist minerals into mortal greymatter that can exhale such inspiration... My God... where does this come from? The first movement of Symphony No. 25 in G minor... a neurological explotion. Seranade for winds? ...like seeing your child dance carelessly for an hour on the hardwood floors of the Irish Rover's upstairs room. Mass in C minor.... total braingasm. I'm humbled. I'm inspired. awe... total awe.