Sitting gallumph in his hard cupped steel chair,

aided with the comfort of increasing dials and buttons,

The blinds withdrawn from the deck,

the frozen ballet of blue and white dots of light,

dance upon an infinite stage,

He lay there extending his neck upon his pedestal hand,

rooted in the arm of his throne,

eyes scarcely gazing, the mind grazing each passing point of illumination,

to the soundless footsteps of dancers to cosmic symphony,

An old concerto of suiteness plays,

echoing through the bridge,

Some composition writ by string quaret of Renaissance,

meant for open rivers of stone to any cultured ear,

The short black hair grows too long and falls,

playing frolly at the eyes fixed on stellar vexation,

small rectangular boxes of leaves in leather blue, green, and red,

fill the chamber with a musky scent and his nose twitches,

inhaling every black scribble and dot about the pages,

Sweeping off and whisking the air the paintings and musings of masters,

Each light a knot,

System an accent,

transport a slur,

uniform a tie,

Slow and grandeur speed compliments each measure