It starts with a feeling.
It starts with a beautiful madness.
It starts in the harbour of hearts
where the art is unmasked and you sail just to see if you can.
And each word is a boat, each boat in a storm,
is tattered and torn, battered and worn as the sails above,
patched together out of phantom histories,
alphabets of lovers and the hides of cities we miss.
We live only to say, "I am here. I exist."
we live for the times
when inspiration creeps up and surprises you like love,
when fortune means family
and truth appears as briefly as a whale's back.
So let the the clocks drip,
let us sail through white noise.
as we write letters to our kids of love and war,
of suffering, the shuffling of great feet, the beating of great oars,
of harbours, of beauty,
It starts with a feeling, and ends with a beginning.