In the beginning
there was love and music.
The truth that ticks
in the tocks of the universal clocks.
Two elements of our atomic hearts.
Before light, before dark.
Before earth, and the stars.
Before the sun and the moon
There was the galactic tune.
The song of the emptiness.
The rhythm of time, before time
had even begun to chime.
In the beginning there was nothing
but the beat. That rhythmic ripple
in the cosmic seas, and as the
waves emerged from nothing,
they added their
own delicate percussion.
The dust began to swirl,
forming worlds. Chiming along,
woodwinds to the song.
In the distance the spheres
sung in echoes.
A choral explosion of
of expression, notes
that rose like hills and fell
in crescendo
like the frayed ends of time herself,
somewhere far in the untold future.
The song sung of love.
For one. For all.
For now, and for future.
For yesterday, today
and days yet to be.
It sung of you and me,
it sung of they and them,
he and she.
Beast and beauty.
Feast and hunter.
It sung of days yonder.
And in all
it sung of laughter and wonder.
In the beginning there was song.
In the beginning there
was a note played into the void,
and the void sung along.
In the beginning there was a chord,
A striked chime across
the burgeoning worlds,
one of hope, acceptance and love.
And in the end, there
will be a scratched record,
warped and wobbling,
a distant recording,
faint but still playing.
As the needle repeats
the phrase over and over.
Love. Love. Love.
Before fading away
into the failing galaxy.
