A few stir
But many more lie still
Marooned inside their warped reveries
Exiled by the drunken tides
And grandiose plumes, of high elation

Few hobble on
Beneath the roving fog
Far from the glorious glow of dawn
As starlight still pierces
Their low and hazy canopies of grey

A calm distortion
Slowly grinds from its knees
Onto its feet
A diligent rising and cacophonous swirl
Droning ahead the crowning sun

From out of the mist and shadow
And into the midst
Of revelry and carnage
Stands the lone strumming outcast
Weaving past roads
He’s long kept inside

Grassy desolation
Arises in many stripes
Worn, and depleted
In the swell of celebration
Resurrected by the whirling strings
Groaning and droning
Through blistering highs and lows

He reaped from the shambles
To fashion his lofty tale
Like the artisan trapped
In jagged devastation
He takes from ruin
And births life anew

Like glittering shards
From a gutted church of old
Wrangled stained glass
Forged, into newborn significance

Like the remnants of war
That scar quiet fields
Toiled upon with great effort
To brandish seas
Of green and golden splendor
Once more

Many stand
Awe struck
As food for the bold, naked and true
The great flowering magnitude
Stacked note upon note
As a shrill and ominous confession