Soft acoustic guitar drips into my ear, played in the key of the Thracian; composed in that melody that was beautiful enough to sway the Blackheart. That song that escaped the grasp of Hell and yet caused greater punishment than Tantalus, though no sin had been committed.
In that vein, the Sea of Ireland was fought and for its' honor the romantic in all of us takes swipes at Spanish windmills. Father Time stomps his double kick drum on the left side of our body while our soul dances out melody on our continual fret board.
The choir that finds it fortunate enough to peer through farsighted glasses is forced to only sing that which is in the hymnal before them reads. Nearby, Gnostic Nathaniel nails a solo of his own nature, naming all of us as naysayers, that this is all God's Will.
But the starlight from all those hearts ago screams on in Siren voices, regardless of opinion. Want or disregard binds all of us that have never finished fighting the sea; those of us that have never finished anything. There is hope in this, hope that maybe the peace like a river will be ours. The stardust that has rained down still cakes to our sandals and will never be shook off when we leave this town.
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