A music box, they claim,
plays a melody.
In its stomach though
a thousand voices bleed through
a thread of time.
plays a melody.
In its stomach though
a thousand voices bleed through
a thread of time.
Classical almost,
and a pinch of modern atrocity,
or more likely
ripples at the mud puddle
sung to a drizzle.
An afterthought.
Dark, warm, acidic
muffled clashes.
With all pretension
the box couldn't tell
which thought was its own.
Rewind
Hoping the cacophony give way to
the right twist of time
convergence
or annihilation.
Over cranked
it spills a silent cadence
secretly rejoice
at home.
12/20/2020
in Palo Alto
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