The Symphony

The jagged symphony,
Waits with baited breath,
Ignores paltry applause,
Forgets to sound our death.

Imagination seeds the thought,
But can it persevere,
Violists pluck in measured time,
Whilst timpanists count years.

Desertion seems to be the norm,
Distraction seems the goal,
Yet nothing beats the frolicking,
Found within music’s whole.

Alas, all said the harpist cries,
Disdain, laid with the tune,
Discern the field, perchance to form,
The perfect chord is hewn.

December kneads the melody,
September strikes the gong,
Yet we can verily confirm,
April provides the song.

Within the promised orchestra,
Without the fervent theme,
Alone abides the commenter,
Disturbed throughout the scene.

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