Hey!
This is the natural sound,
of air through throat and
speaker tones that do distort
oh! with our hope.
Freeing the molecules that might remember,
the shape and the tambour of…
those feelings that were felt,
long before words were spelled,
they were,
held in that place by magnetic pulse,
until you stumbled in and knocked the power back out,
louder than the fake rages,
of any of those history book pages.
A static for shaking of static,
a measuring stick against the music,
that is,
the same loud or soft, on or off,
the crushed cold ripple, ravaging the pelagic,
bounding off.
We take in so much,
that nothing seems real,
Except for the fixed shape and the bent light flakes,
that this needle sized pupil takes
and we have this,
we have this we have this, we have this we have this,
we have this we have this, we have this we have this:
This is Hope and Songs to Sing.