Fred Aiken Writing

some wicked song will be sung on an unimportant eve,
before the clashing of thimbles come crashing down,
banging from wall to wall,
while eye sockets bulge out of their cages,
and the wicked song gets synthesized and sampled over and over
until it is unrecognizable,
until it is popping through the roof and into the stratosphere
where no one can touch its sound,
because the sound is not real; it crashes down without a sound,
and disappears without a trace, as the saying goes