the composer finds a flaw within his art:
a countertheme that breaks the bonds.
the theme is lost, another takes control.
sometimes a sunset becomes a thunderstorm
and branches blackened stand against the sky.
i direct the choirs of my mind:
composed as prelude; in fugue a war
clashing beneath night into stars.
sometimes the hand falls wisest without thought
and what is seen is better when unhoped.
this is my hope within this world:
that He resolves in Him these strains,
in words too deep to yet be said.