scattered notes lay roundabout
upon the artful card
muted, trapped within a sheet
ensnared by avant-gardes
their task is being on the beat
a timely deed, a blessed feat

notes that dangle swooping tails
and dance upon the lines
exuding their prerogative
from players, to divine
but they can not speak, or live
and so they have no voice to give

but artists free the notes inside
with tools of wood and brass
no more will they be trapped within
immuring lines, at last
after cheers, they must begin
conceiving noises of great din

the crowd is stirred and held in place
by alluring notes and sounds
the organized cacophony
so pure, and brilliantly profound
this conversant symphony
fabricating grace foreseen

their music fills the air around
their voices can be heard
having no such liberty to choose
how to express their words
however, even they can’t lose
the virtue of the artist’s muse

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