fermata
hitting the uppermost soprano,
tremor in the throat,
sweet sixteen specializing in
coloratura
a minstrel named
Psyche
treble clef
stymie of a time signature…
unheard of
lost virginity and
making love to the melody,
seizing aria
eighteenth rest
in cut time
staccato flux on skin,
recherché satisfaction
(would be a tragedy
if that all was lost…)
trill
as all else dissolves,
a solitary species,
a voice
tunes to the veil of the Artic
for the temperate has forsaken music
leaving flat…
the cut off
a driven conductor of quiescence,
purity lost in passion
forever in vain
thunderclap stops sinfonietta short,
and then guillotine
to slash intonation.
forty measure’s rest.
mute
what is left is a muffled shriek,
a tone of wavering woodwind
like pneumatic flute
severed mouthpiece
useless
tablature
falls off stands
that almost look like skeletal trees
no matter how silver sheens,
the leaves float to Heaven,
leaving the stench of
failure.
Silver trophy winner
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