In the echo chamber it is the cymbals which cause the most pain. The drums resound, deep and loud, but it is the crashing of brass that drives me wild. Cotton wool and sealing wax can not put my head at ease. Resonate walls with their hollow effects create the feedback loops of hurt, like the endless reflection of parallel mirrors the sounds come back to me with relentless repetition. Aural illusion might have been the idea, but chaos is the result and leaving the space between these ears will be, will allow, the band to play on without the benefit of my torment.
Write the stories the clouds illustrate
I love the flowers in my garden
Their upkeep is my solemn trust
With my shears I must cut
Clear and swift the runners
Which detract from the health and structure.
When fruiting is heavy I must spare the stalk
And choose what stays and what needs to be taken
I am scrupulous in my observation of form and function
The bucolic scene thrives
The pageant of color sweeps the rows
I bend to nurture and stretch to prune
I pay over much attention to the plucking
And forget I need to bring the blooms home.