If the song is not on my lips its purling in my blood
Swimming through the factory like
The sun in a mirror maze seeking the moon
The tune; jejune, entombed, in womb, in rume, at loom
A sworn-in loons the crooner soon the knell will cue the true
Instinctive wail to parse the will beneath the scales and sail the skies.
Beneath space and over all that lies.