Art, music, manner, maketh man. There are echoes of the ghosted-stumbled soul, the taste of the licked clean broken ribs of the one who weeps. There is space between the earth and the moon, rhymes and lines would be the filler, a note like the only harp will know. The science morphed into poetry, into a song of the hard steps mortal took. Not only being heard when the moon turned into blood red or half shining with darkness consuming it half. Thumbing the gentle scar on the thumping strings, the broken notes, the earthly delicate moves for the dust for that instrument. Relies upon the key and is hooked on the pitch where the music saves souls. Over the bitter tainted, liquid-slow of the arts, the strokes of the fall hue, over the head and quivering limbs, dreams are made out of the simplest thing; to seize the gifts, the ability to create art with finite time and space. Let the heart sinks onto the fading colors, the stillness of the sea, and the greyish moon-pool, the bow of the string, caught up with silken skin. The undoubtedly unbeating waves crash upon the idea of the splattered ink. An anthem of the longing of life, a melody that never leaves.