Legend

Congenital self-royalty, in name, not by hubris; lean brown genius with a gift rare and fresh no excuses for the abstruse, this potpourri of masques and implemented genres, untamed and loose in swagger by Artists choice and love, fast moving energy, out-of-the-box command, like a shiny red corvette off Detroit's assembly line, not so little as the song played for you and me, its owner, now a memory. Eyes and ears reach towards the sky, something's happened very sad, hear the silence of tragedy cooing loudly o'er willow trees as rain begins to fall, soaking, imbuing Dahlias, the torrents steal the amethyst deep from each petal, one by one, through the floodgates bathed in grief who'd have thought we'd read the epilogue to this book before it closed. And, that's when I saw a cote of Doves flanked in structure overhead, like a Flying 'V' guitar, cooing in feral pitch, then to a empty sky; and the silence was maddening. The lifeline had been cut; there was no survivor. Heard somebody whisper, to the nod of many more *''That is what it sounds like, when Doves cry''. *Line borrowed from the 1984 Prince Album, ' _____________'REVOLUTION''_____________ © Prince Rogers Nelson-1984-All Rights Reserved ©Frank James Ryan, Jr. / FjR MMXVI-All Rights Reserved