To Aspire

He Who Would Inspire


Meaning to amuse, he laughed;

meaning to arouse, he beamed aloud.

It was as if this, his immolating self,

could bind any audience to his thrall.


It was not the same, though,

as that for which he aspired,

that he had to do, to experience: that thing

which he knew he had the capacity to create.


But it was never enough, never enough, to sate the need,

the hunger; to not merely pluck that instrument’s strings,

to make of these combinations and permutations such sounds

that the songs they formed would inevitably please,


but would have them awaken, inexplicably startled,

even alarmed, as if by some alien sun at dawn,

its retinal reactive lightning effects,

energetically calling, shouting, to every receptive corner of the brain,


and would see them fly, as if an in-drawn breath alone

would raise them, annihilate the gravitational pull of earth,

and they would float, bubbles, rainbow-hued, angelic,

right up, right up, to each-other’s fantasy of sky.