Time, please.

Musical arrangement lies rotting in trend,

Consuming unnoticed innovation to sustain its stagnating

Mass;

Sounding out pretentious self import, like a chick crying for food...

Gathering up the struck chords, I bridge the tremulous tension

Bearing the noxious song that permeates the husk.

The dream can still be seen, darting between hopes

Actualised into mortified stone,

Now pulverised by ghouls and oppressed plant life.

The young and the strange look on as their sanctuaries crumble,

Look on as with puritanical fanatascism, the bizarre is put to flame

For want of good taste...and beer sales.

Finally; too paralysed by disinterest to intervene and

Striving only toward continued numbness,

The strange turn away, and the wonderful can once again

Never be.