The conductor wildly waves his baton
mimicking the weary minds of his players.
Sitting catatonic and suicidal beneath
several agonizing apathetic layers. .
-
Layers of superficial sonic ecstasy,
that merely mask the players’ misery,
in a whirlwind of harmonious affinity,
in the shadow of faulty artistic reprieve.
-
The players’ faces are contorted,
their stony cheeks a horrifying crimson,
as they pay their chemical penance,
to a deaf audience bathing in innocence.
-
For they’re only here for the corrosive fusion,
of carefully played, melodic tones,
struck by the silent, melancholic players,
living mentally, emotionally alone.
