Dissonance
It’s all been corrupted again; perhaps it always was
an orchestral piece of broken instruments,
brass in half, rusty slides on wooden floors,
snapped strings and shredded bows hung as laurels
earnest proclaiming relevant competencies;
cracked and corroded the timpanis,
someone removed all the glockenspiel keys,
laid out and stomped the cymbals,
stripped the snare, punctured the tense heads,
beaten bare and lonely;
dented the mellow sousaphone, chucked at the walls
bleating wet smacking barbaric throat noises,
harmonic bassoons with splintered reeds
dissonant and dying their somber buzz.
Crescendoes at fortissimo tax the wary band;
they wonder when the song will end.
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