silly songs
whispered through dull eyes,
the rhythm passing, pulsing, prying;
existence defined by the deafening sound
of a cultured crowd
under a pane of yellowed glass,
where throbs spread wings,
a fiery glow of monotonous camaraderie
takes pretense over a more intricate design
developed behind the consistently churning bass,
the stabilizing sound of expectency,
the cultured fear of change
weaving its threads in ever changing patterns
where the pulse can't reach,
where the pulse can't speak,
where the eyes shine bright,
where the mind has sight
and the crowd has thinned
before the ever growing mass
that spreads its wings in hopeful hauntings
of its enlarged sphere
back to poetry
back to main