There are so many holes

in the human soul

like a heart, stapled

and punctured

with bullet holes

We try to transplant our pain

but there is no medical procedure

for the invisible organ

that makes music

we live by.

We play

bad

and that is the sound

of a billion souls

screaming in the city.

Every once and a while

there is a note

so powerful

we listen.

People need good music

or simply silence.

That is why

the woods

and the water

down-out

the worries of men—

the wind

blowing the trees

like memories

so distant, from you or me.

Movement

allows us to capture the moment

Something invisible

isn’t seen

but we know

its affect—

the sound of the soul

in the trees.

There’s bad music playing, no doubt

So, read Poetry

Become as still as a rock

and

you will know

the world worth knowing

a thousand sunsets

a Universe glowing

with

the sound

of the silent soul.