Symphony
and the stream through the brush through the wood
slips slowly, sneakily, simply past my lips
to deaden misnomered shouts,
misplaced modifiers.
yet the spell in the book past the clock
swirls slightly, spitefully, silently around your ears
countering dissatisfying compliments,
melting self-developed worries.
for the keys cloaked with ivory in the ebony
strike them stupefied. such starlit surprise shies
listeners from listening
the player from playing
the laughter from laughing
the despair from disheartening
the woken from walking
the born from becoming
becoming a tearful remedy
of broken delights
knowing not which harmony
to hum, drum, or run from
the stream's spell
the key to laughing at despair,
to awaking (not becoming)
a broken harmony.
