I’m just the same, I know:
We wake each day with no idea
Of what is and is not ahead.
Morning is no different for me as was or is.

At least that’s what I am meant to feel,
What I am told in well meaning aside,
By those deafened by their fear
Or the sweet muzak of youth.

I am not the same, I know:
Waking is different now,
Now that I am attuned
To the pulsing of this inconsonant symphony.

It calls to me every morning,
It wakes me in the night,
It whispers bitter somethings
As I turn away in fright.

But there’s the thing about sound;
There is no turning away.
It surrounds and invades and evades
Our quietly urgent, doomed, attempts to ignore its sway.

It calls to me every morning,
Taunts every new trick I concoct,
To still its discordant reminders
That this is but a stanza in the symphony of the spheres.

Yet oddly, lately, I have found,
Sometimes amidst that jarring, grating shrill,
A suggestion of that harmonious time to come
When we leave to join the spheres.

I’m just the same, I know;
I wake each day with no idea
Of what is and is not ahead,
Of what will and will not be right.

Ah but sleep is another matter,
In sleep there is space, and time,
For echoes of that inharmonious sound
To fade behind the symphony ahead.

The notes write themselves with grace and ease,
On the pages of a sleep fuelled score.
Preparing me for that time when of me there is no more,
But an echo making music in the spheres: playing the symphony ahead.