I'm not Lucifer, I'm not the Devil,
I'm not anything you know
I'm just listening for the music
and I want to hear the show
I'm not an Angel, I'm not Jesus
you mistake this moment's glow
In all things is the music
and that's what I would know
There's a growing cloud of smoke
There are mirrors in the streets
There are people lost in mazes
where they're all trying to meet
but once they get inside them
they can't find their way back out
and then we hear the wailing,
they're screaming, and they shout,
"Will you come to help us
We're here and we've lost our way
We don't have any guidance
and we still hope for you to play
When we hear the music
We will finally know the way
We want so much to hear the music
We want so much to find that way"
- Colonel Arbuthnot Jones
This was the first document to roll off Yevette's new printer, the Rescuer from Difficult Things. She afforded the document great honor for that since this may have been the last poem. She didn't mean the Last Poem as the last I will ever write but this one does look like it was the last I have written.
Remind me not to critique it since the only result from that has always been to leave the sorry mess in a bloody and broken pile on the floor. It's not some kind of cerebral poem since it isn't religious and its only thought is the music.
We're always looking for something and the most content have found it or believe they have. The ones most content after that are they who believe they're on the way.
Zen Yogi: otherwise they may have got to the maze?
Too right, Yogi.
We have definitely found the way to the Great Cosmicity and it may not even be possible to find it at any other time. I tell you it is here, mates, and it's plentiful with music often in forms you never heard previously. I tell you it is here ... and I revel in it.
I'm not anything you know
I'm just listening for the music
and I want to hear the show
I'm not an Angel, I'm not Jesus
you mistake this moment's glow
In all things is the music
and that's what I would know
There's a growing cloud of smoke
There are mirrors in the streets
There are people lost in mazes
where they're all trying to meet
but once they get inside them
they can't find their way back out
and then we hear the wailing,
they're screaming, and they shout,
"Will you come to help us
We're here and we've lost our way
We don't have any guidance
and we still hope for you to play
When we hear the music
We will finally know the way
We want so much to hear the music
We want so much to find that way"
- Colonel Arbuthnot Jones
This was the first document to roll off Yevette's new printer, the Rescuer from Difficult Things. She afforded the document great honor for that since this may have been the last poem. She didn't mean the Last Poem as the last I will ever write but this one does look like it was the last I have written.
Remind me not to critique it since the only result from that has always been to leave the sorry mess in a bloody and broken pile on the floor. It's not some kind of cerebral poem since it isn't religious and its only thought is the music.
We're always looking for something and the most content have found it or believe they have. The ones most content after that are they who believe they're on the way.
Zen Yogi: otherwise they may have got to the maze?
Too right, Yogi.
We have definitely found the way to the Great Cosmicity and it may not even be possible to find it at any other time. I tell you it is here, mates, and it's plentiful with music often in forms you never heard previously. I tell you it is here ... and I revel in it.
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