My hands move like water over lily pads white and black,
above keys that agree with the notes of a mental track.
I'm pulled by a rhythm forward and back.
I lose myself in a euphonic lilac.

I drown when I divert from love,
dragged into a crushing depth;
and lo, the way whereon I trod—
one whose gate is wide and broad—
does lead me unto certain death.

The quickness of rage—
that murderous blight—
discards self-control
for counterfeit might.