The strings of love did play without material hand,
fingered lightly, plucked as if they knew,
phantasms ghostly and in dubious, ancient shape,
were standing, waiting, holding to some hidden plan,
that took with slender, sure, musician’s touch the heart,
and struck the notes mysterious and pure; to truth create.
In revelation Soul did write the chords divine,
this rite of secrecy and worship so decreed,
which echoed through the halls of hallowed dreams,
initiates in lips compressed, soft, closed and full defined,
that sacred words will whisper in love’s waiting, open ears,
ensuring world becomes so much more than it had ever been.
For Eros in the service of the law decreed,
does master us and all that we would have inspired,
as occupation, trade and service to the cause of purity,
he crafts, with closet hands the form which will be soon revealed,
holds the beating orb sublime; the crucible which bubbles endlessly,
in the doing, weaves in mystery, ephemeral threads twixt you and me.