At my back, the sun lights
a kingdom of love that has now passed.
My gait has taken me
across the bridge of its outer ends.

The center there had been a fountain,
but the juice of life it pumped
has boiled and evaporated.

This darkness is a vacuum.

I turn my gaze to the future,
see a glowing in the distance.
Slow steps carry my weighted body.
The gravity here is boulders.

I wish to lie flat until it
crushes my lungs with its silent pull,
air leaving its prison cell.

Then I remember the color
music has made of nothing,
take my hands and draw
an oblong eight.

An arm is attached
to the upper edge,
perimeter changed with silhouette.

The stumps of deathwood
are perfect for my means.
I shave them into slivers,
and metals into strings;

glue them with my blood
and drench the grain in red.
It turns to scarlet syrup.

The instrument scabs into existence,
an organ of my being,
manifested wholly.

I let it come back then,
hold it like newborn flesh
and feed it rhyme and rhythm.

It, in turn, sings me tunes.

I have decided to stay here
with my creations.
With their influence, I am solid.

The wavering, smoking, fading depth is solid.

This life is tolerable with my hands
and ears and cylindricals.

This is my new kingdom.

I'll color the pages in with notes,
one speck at a time.

Then, I'll seek that glow.