The rush one gets from hearing rhythms race
across one’s frigid skin, across one’s brain.
The chill a haunting melody can raise,
and tides of volume rising over pain.
The constant cycle of a metre’s grace,
the thrill of sound like winter’s frozen rain
perennial despite the season’s face,
erupting in the ecstasies of waves.
The art of music, is an energy
beyond the happiness of joyous stars.
Not average pop songs, rock, or worthless trash –
but music, soaring to the skies so free –
transcending time, so near and just as far –
pure sound, releasing us from life’s quick dash.
Whoops...I just realized that I wrote an extra line in this one. It was:
ReplyDeleteor summer’s artful, heated, mounting blaze,
Such a pity, it was a good line. :( It was between
the thrill of sound like winter’s frozen rain
and
perennial despite the season’s face,.