In that dream
He stood at the door

His hair all frizzed
Running wild

As if telling me
Chaos is natural
When meaning itself
Appears bold

Leading us soon
With a chord
Off strings wound tight
Forming coils
At the head of his axe
Almost wooden
If frets weren’t souls
Which would sing

Strumming their voice
Belting out
What prophets alone
Couldn’t muster

Making those notes
Speak of gospel
Since music was made
To uphold

Such fortunate nights
Become news
After terrible days
Facing silence
Where God sat still
Losing sunshine
Behind thick clouds
Causing rain

Letting silent prayers
Always beg

Or endure through storms
Hearing thunder

But enjoy loud bangs
Bringing rhythms
Drums will beat
Seeking noise

Needing every pulse
Now attuned

How Bob might use
Trailing poems

Tugging small threads
Over puddles
Guiding weary ears
Fearing words

Drowning melodies
Tethered by rage
Once built on hope
Drawing pictures
High fidelity sounds
Paint abstractly
Yet inherently feel
Playing hard

Swinging ropes
Some sinners might climb

Though dangling faith
With resistance

Fighting empty lines
Against heartbeats

While lyrics inside
Remain screams.

• J. Pigno