It begins in a vaulted chamber of sound
each tone distinct,
each voice sincere —
but no gathering point.

Only echoes,
clashing and tumbling,
like offerings dropped
before an altar without flame.

Not scattered, not lost
but not yet home.

A ritual unlit.
An altar dressed, but no hands to bless it.

This is what happens
when we sit in the theater of Dionysus —
seated far, reading the masks
to either fear or laugh.
Watching the gods rehearse fate —
their gestures grand, their voices distant —
yet familiar enough.

The mask of tragedy looks up
in trembling awe
at what hovers beyond reach —
then looks down,
in dread of what we are
and what it means.

But this is what happens
when we observe-
not as a Self,
but as a scattered audience
wandering the halls of myth and tones.
without stepping
as one onto the stage.

And in that swing,
an empty knowing
like children told of storms and stars.
We carry the meaning as outline,
but not yet as path.

And yet,
“I feel everything.”
“I see it all,” we say.
But feeling without direction
becomes reaction.
Seeing without anchoring
becomes confusion.

We are not wrong to look.
But looking alone does not reveal truth —
not until the one who watches
enters with presence in their eyes.
And something ancient replies.

The myrrh —
of the song that plays on, beyond design,
already alive
before we ever understood time.

So now —
we walk, not to reach.
We sing — not to prove our sound belongs,
but because we are part of the ancient song.

Not like olive oil drifting in water —
apart from what it rests upon —
but like one who walks through Chiron’s wound,
knowing the scar is not the end.

Wise in discernment, of the earth it walks,
in sage with the soul —
like myrrh and frankincense meeting in flame,
a scent not taught, but remembered —
through anything,
the ancient song carries
above and beneath the storm.