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Biography is either masked ball or epitaph. As you find me, so we are.

Friday, 28 March 2014

Song for the Predestined Ear

Avian sings to forest:  But what’s sound,
When none but this winged songstress be around
To sense the song? For, even she is deaf
To her own notes. O, melancholy clef,
That whilst it might perform, still silence sneers
Upon the melody.  She disappears.
Yes, long she sings, yet no more than mute mess
Transmits to auditorium.  Caress
Of wavelength finds no sympathetic form
To resonate, no molecules to warm,
No tuning fork sings out, no strings vibrate
In union with sweet and partnered mate.
Yes, still she sings, as though she has no choice
But to persist with un-herd, unheard voice.
Through dead air, life slips in, now to listen;
Pulsating audience. How sounds glisten
Upon fresh-poised and rare, receptive mind -
So well-attuned as if made from like kind
Of fabric. Matched, their instrument is joint,
Yet plays duet.  Each forms the counterpoint.
“I had a brain, five senses (one unique)” -
Now I have lived to know why Shade might speak
Of messages received by him alone,
For, I, too, have perceived such private tone
In cryptophasic signals, as a lover,
In rarer states of twinning, does discover.
And so it is the codes in tune appear
To the paired, perfect and predestined ear.

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