Long Lines.

That wind roars outside like bassoons beating under a tremolo And clarinets whistle in my ears; I, forgetful of the fear and the awful Expanding sadness of life, listen to someone else's tunes and blot out the world. Music and its crescendi are there, not dead, but leaping in notes across the staves Racks to barely hold in the audio tracks, the tympani and traps Tapping a metronomic, inexorable pattern, plainly pointing to the staccato Insistence of time, my unseen enemy, my mortal enemy. Music of any kind impels the best in me to forget sadness, leave To the plastic trash the 20th Century and its foolish view. The slower, thoughtful bite of life and editable, understanding hedged ideas Falls into choppy phone calls, long distance, with the wires slung across the world A clefless staff, worked by pottering, sputtering minmalists.