The Monsignor

Powdery white dust falling slowly on my head has made me all hot inside like choking back Patience when the tips of your ears begin to swelter with unexplainable rage. The thoughts have a soft darkness to them like easing up to the next flight. Everything is Alright. Promise.
 
Eric Lamont Rey
Still...The Monsignor

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To speak from silver...

How can I keep my word, this Promise,
when it races away from my lips?
Was it ever mine to begin with?  
Tis fair to note I moved some air and
it wiggled your ear drum, but
the hum from my thought speed
hit you a trillion years ago
before either of us entered
this current flow just might re-mind that
once upon a time
chaos and order were good friends
still are without end
sincerly,
the flutist