Symphony

These wicked walls of wicked sound
hold true and aching, solid ground
and beat clear ‘pon both heart and head
to bow bellow the sovereign dead.
And quickening steps come quickening forth
to kiss away each brows’ discourse.
Then softly still they lay us slow
till lingering near, a pillowed blow,
so nothing tears near break apart
and creep between each thundering start.
So all held hung ‘tween sound and string,
all dark as day and cold as spring,
for soonly sung such magic stops-

After the applause, we file out of the theater
on to the darkened streets to maybe catch a cab.
Numb from the ears down, we shuffle through the snow.
Yet on the wind a vagabond fiddlings for our pennies,
some spark still lingers, shaking us with feeling.