The Sound Of Bugles

I can hear the clarion call of a bugle’s resound upon the wind
feel that trump blare its notes to summon my heart to reply,
but when I know not the lips that blow its tune
nor see that source that lies past my view
my mind will paint the musician's face as friend or villain.

And when the light does unveil the origin of those notes
my spirit conjures the melody as menace or rescue.
Without the incarnation of that phantom noise to embody as truth
all I have is the sight of my imagination to give it life.

In the stress of the uncertainty over the invisible player's purpose
speculation’s torch burns upon my tongue,
it licks the air with my own creations
embellished by the anxiety to manufacture
a tale to fit the unseen melody’s supposed meaning.

Fear and curiosity streak their flames through the soul,
quickly making a buffer of reasons
that can prepared for an imminent invasion
even though there is no visible threat evident.

Panic drafts its mental warriors and prepares for war,
ready to slay that harmony’s potential marauder
before the breeze carries the solo artist into view
and you realize in that sight
how a bird’s song and bugle can be contrived
as the same composition beyond the horizon,
if all you do is see with your prejudices.