Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Juices Flowing



Speaking of voices, I swallowed a voice,

once mild and merry, laughing and singing.


I didn’t detect the subtle undertones,

and clashing overtones; it’s irony of intent.


This voice knew not the theory of music;

a scale or chord. It merely mocked.


And I choked as it went down.

I chased it with salt water.


I gargled the notes, swishing them about

in my throat. And the voice sank in.


It planted its anchor, docked to shore,

and like a pestilence, settled down to breed.


But the voice is not welcome.

Blindly, it has turned upon itself.


It is disconnected and hangs glumly

by a thread- a mere strand of tone.


Without melody, forgetting words,

the voice is all washed up. Ragged.


It loses face, becoming dryly airborne,

and through self consumption, dissipates.


Jennifer Burnside

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