Accord

Clipped nails
pluck strings
please don’t compare music to another
cliche spoon of honey, it doesn’t
sound so sweet to me. Your chord wails of
tight corsets choking waists, fallen hatchlings
wandering a precarious mountain face,
arcane viewers pleading for salvation
before they trip upon the precipice.
Trembling notes are a second soul,
but don’t say you comprehend
until you’ve extirpated your youth’s wantings
and found a pain that suits you properly.
Noetic medicine, a cull of desires from which
you’ve been estranged, hearing ameliorated,
an opportunity has now presented itself;
to translate the bellow of the instrument
may appease a power beyond
the malleus, the stapes, the drum,
to places only humans dare venture,
realms of mystic immaterial throngs.
So strike a chord again,
hone in to the waves, let them carry you
past where your feet may trod,
transport of clouds, painted wind, and claim
your wreathed solace, uncut gem
varnished within.