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Description
I.

Many moons have passed over your head
and your imposing brick face, hard with age,
looks down upon the frail earth.
A king to his subjects,
you loom over all, a noble of high degree.
Your imperial crown can be seen for thousands of miles,
a symbol of power, a signpost for relief.

II.

Within your four walls,
a heart as human as mine emerges,
alive and active.
Red seats are aligned, soldiers for war
or cells in the veins and arteries of a living creature.
Your shadow workers,
cloaked in the heavy shroud of silence,
carry out your actions dutifully.
Their sinuous rhythm,
quick, efficient, supple, undying,
form your vital pulse,
the beating of your all-too human heart,
and makes the sweet elixir of life channel through your body.
Your sentries work
to the beat of a tribal drum,
to the rhythm of their faithful hearts,
to let your rigid walls pulsate with life.

III.

Where are your eyes,
those bright and gleaming viewports to your soul?
Are they the glass windows
that allow you to gaze upon your domain,
bare plains of melted sand?
Or could your eyes be through your many, loyal charges,
borrowed vision, eyesight lent for free,
their gift of sight and insight fuels your own?
Or could there be no eyes?
You are blind to all who pass beneath your crown,
each is worthy of any treasure they seek
and will be rewarded handsomely.
You bear no prejudice.
You welcome all.

IV.

Hark! A voice rises above the tumult.
You sing praises of men and their virtues
and damn them for their follies.
Yet how is your voice born within this box of stone?
Messengers, livelier than fire,
dressed in foreign frills and painted strange,
cry out your hymns and rhapsodies,
note on note like spun glass thread, light and airy,
yet the sharp message they decree lies naked and invisible.

V.

Crowns need support from a dignified head,
governed wholly by the just brain.
It is no different for you.
Each of your followers, sentries, and singers
relay your thoughts and wishes.
They are the bundled rope of nerves,
each hand and voice a synapse.
Yet what is your mind?
Who is the commanding officer for this army of light?
Who directs each notion, word, and act?
One who is more misted in darkness than all the others.
One who knits these organs all together
into a conceptual body of work.
The sovereign mind who directs the show.

VI.

Heart, eyes, voice, mind----
All leading to the treasure so many come to claim:
The soul.
The soul of the body revered as a temple,
the holy ghost of the troupe.
Simply stated, it is a book,
a small, bound bible of printed text.
And yet…
it hold the cues for the heart,
the songs for the voice,
the vision for the brain,
and the gold for the patrons who visit our home.
It is the woven quilt of the arts,
the comforting embrace for this tight-knit family,
the bringer-together of worlds.
It is the shelter for the heartsick,
the resort for the daring,
and the loving home of the loyal.
There is no soul more pure,
more honest,
more humble than that.

Description
I.

Many moons have passed over your head
and your imposing brick face, hard with age,
looks down upon the frail earth.
A king to his subjects,
you loom over all, a noble of high degree.
Your imperial crown can be seen for thousands of miles,
a symbol of power, a signpost for relief.

II.

Within your four walls,
a heart as human as mine emerges,
alive and active.
Red seats are aligned, soldiers for war
or cells in the veins and arteries of a living creature.
Your shadow workers,
cloaked in the heavy shroud of silence,
carry out your actions dutifully.
Their sinuous rhythm,
quick, efficient, supple, undying,
form your vital pulse,
the beating of your all-too human heart,
and makes the sweet elixir of life channel through your body.
Your sentries work
to the beat of a tribal drum,
to the rhythm of their faithful hearts,
to let your rigid walls pulsate with life.

III.

Where are your eyes,
those bright and gleaming viewports to your soul?
Are they the glass windows
that allow you to gaze upon your domain,
bare plains of melted sand?
Or could your eyes be through your many, loyal charges,
borrowed vision, eyesight lent for free,
their gift of sight and insight fuels your own?
Or could there be no eyes?
You are blind to all who pass beneath your crown,
each is worthy of any treasure they seek
and will be rewarded handsomely.
You bear no prejudice.
You welcome all.

IV.

Hark! A voice rises above the tumult.
You sing praises of men and their virtues
and damn them for their follies.
Yet how is your voice born within this box of stone?
Messengers, livelier than fire,
dressed in foreign frills and painted strange,
cry out your hymns and rhapsodies,
note on note like spun glass thread, light and airy,
yet the sharp message they decree lies naked and invisible.

V.

Crowns need support from a dignified head,
governed wholly by the just brain.
It is no different for you.
Each of your followers, sentries, and singers
relay your thoughts and wishes.
They are the bundled rope of nerves,
each hand and voice a synapse.
Yet what is your mind?
Who is the commanding officer for this army of light?
Who directs each notion, word, and act?
One who is more misted in darkness than all the others.
One who knits these organs all together
into a conceptual body of work.
The sovereign mind who directs the show.

VI.

Heart, eyes, voice, mind----
All leading to the treasure so many come to claim:
The soul.
The soul of the body revered as a temple,
the holy ghost of the troupe.
Simply stated, it is a book,
a small, bound bible of printed text.
And yet…
it hold the cues for the heart,
the songs for the voice,
the vision for the brain,
and the gold for the patrons who visit our home.
It is the woven quilt of the arts,
the comforting embrace for this tight-knit family,
the bringer-together of worlds.
It is the shelter for the heartsick,
the resort for the daring,
and the loving home of the loyal.
There is no soul more pure,
more honest,
more humble than that.