Nathrangking

A sonnet I have brought into the world to follow the others from before.

Musician Divine

Tune that flows forth most softly and subtly,

Come now and cast upon us your healing,

 You who might shapes reality humbly

will be accused most falsely of stealing.

Flute of moon illuminate our spirits,

We long to bathe in your rapturous waves.

Bind us in a passion without limits,

Transform us into your most willing slaves.

Mortal ears most unworthy seek you out,

In shadow, the souls walk harmoniously,

Frantic chaos calls even those with clout,

Joyous song sung ceremoniously.

Call us to you now O' muse of muses,

Truly we are yours without excuses.