cut into pieces and fed to a melody
that doesn’t sound so pleasant going down
as it did coming up,
but such is the rhapsody of being fed
to cannibalistic music
wrapped up in its own twisted chords
the room grows quiet,
a melancholy song skips on the record player
that you bought me for my thirtieth birthday last year
when i was going through a hipster phase,
which i’ve said i’m sorry about,
but i still like the music playing in the background,
even when it sounds discordant and lacks melody
you listen to music,
you listen to a podcast,
you listen to the radio,
you listen to the voices in your head,
you go off the grid,
and the voices become more pronounced
Fred Aiken Writing 