CYMBAL

In the season of apples
In the city of chapels

I am the bristle of your brush the stroke of your arm on the canvas of your eye

Painting the sky with my clouds
My grey words and white words
What white clouds or grey
Can unsettle the sky

Words just not sounds sounds not just words sound just words sound just

Tears before a happy ever after
Or a laughter that grows as beer flows
Or a candle that glowed
Brightest before cold blown by night

So raise a flag hold hands anoint lamb in myrtle and other symbols

For I am the sight of your eye
And I am the tear and the seer
The lit and the light
That glowed in the night