Today, rejecting industrial clang,
and Brahms sings to me,
jagged but straight edges, if possible,
the waste of a day, rejecting the beautiful
concept of being with the living,
no being with the flow, no moving in concert.
No, bubbling in anger coming from another world,
anger undeserved, wholly natural, anger
at everything, which is, after all, a blanket of despair.
Begging for more and more Brahms, loud,
not quite hopeless, but rich sound
battling the jagged lines.
No flow as I wallow in the stench
of my torn and rugged caverns
with the echos of atrophied harmonies.