song pollution. noise in hundreds. the smog is humming
your worst, and we all cough it up. given a shape
to them, the words in a fury. some stuck in your airways.
the grayness overhead. there are choices: past and prison.
you have unmade tons, but can you make one? light skews
the borders the dark in exile for once. the shadows from before lurk
behind the day moon. the night keeps its distance, keeps you in a
question. all the days halt. there's a block, a loss. wrote our injuries
and it's tragic. disasters in a pattern swarm and waste your youth.
your din still grips the ground the space between mountains, where the sound
will settle itself and rest inside you. crippled instruments nearly collapsing.
what's ripe now is about to rot on the branches or in your stomach