by Arthur Isaacson
I listen to his voice upon the breeze
as filling all my world, it gives release.
A voice I know yet haven't heard before
embraces me in golden warmth and more.
It's not his words that hold me in their grip
but sounds defying all known authorship.
I hear them in my soul as if from me
And wonder why his sound can set me free.
I sense his voice is from an inner source
as I become the sounds that through me course,
and all I ever longed to say before
the singer has in beauty now explored.
Searching for the truth within I find
the common source where we are intertwined.
His music that consumes me and enthralls
Is the sound of who I am, he has recalled.
I listen to his voice upon the breeze
that carries me to places not believed.
To know that this ascension soon will end
and I will spend my life to comprehend.
