The Song


Hear the opiate sounds of the drums
so gorgeous in it's nonexistence.
I am the trumpet of nowhere.
I am the fife of musiclessness.
Squire who heralds the actions of dust.
See me play.
Playing for thoughts.
I sing in dangerous intonations
of sedulously secret simplicity.
I tarnish my talisman of string and wood
with the hordes of plastic pleasure.
Take heart in that there is no call for the toneless.
No death in the house of sadness.
Only life.

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