The Prime and Ultimate Composition
That moment comes when music turns to bliss,
No, something stretched beyond that, more like space
That heaven strains to make, the stars’ abyss
Of height and depth where angel ranks abase
Themselves and also rise up singing, “Love,
Love, Love,” to fill wings’ everlasting need,
A need, a vacuum spilled full, above
Archangels’ in infinitude. Light’s speed
Turns in upon itself so speed becomes
A googol times a googol, and again,
And travels (nth it travels). Time succumbs
To regions that forbid immortal pain.
The first and final melodies are one
As they have ever been where joys run.
~ Phillip Whidden