would there be any credit to the world
were tomorrow i gone? vanished—
like some ethereal dotted eighth—from
one divine orchestral stave—into eternal hush.
there is our moment played—and should the maker
miss his mark—a flat, or too sharp for a natural—
the score proceeds unwitting—cradle of keys
whe’r sound or sour—and there is symphony regardless.
but if the conduct of those chords progress
until the maestro halts the score upon us—a
premeditated coda—a failed tune—a clumsy strum—
and that is how the world in me plays out—
would there be music in the world again
were tomorrow i gone?