Music

I was born in the state of music
Where meaning is held, complete:

Every port has a band

To explain what the sun never can

And to enhance, under its wing,

The high ideals and tender feelings,

Even the notes of sadness offer reasons

To embrace what I had no business trying to love.

Much later came the Gods and the statistics
And the knives to make the bolts of blue make sense

And the words that would explain 
Oneself by way of the world

And it slipped away to separate fiefdoms
None of them real or true

Though the music we still shared
Made it so appear.