BY DR. AGONSON
The song is done, just echoes here,
and memories, like ghosts, draw near.
I thought a dream would sooth my soul,
but sleep has left me far from whole.
So, play the harp, you drowsy bard,
and make the rhythm mad.
Bring wine and dance and bobbles please
and run me dogged, lest with ease
frenzied my mind may wander where
I knew the truth I wouldn’t dare.
The easy road, I’ve found too hard,
so make the rhythm mad.
So has my knife cut out your tongue?
I thought only your heart I stung.
Has music perished with that beat?
Forever stilled, once dancing feet?
Play presto! Leave this long retard.
Just make the rhythm mad!
I’ve killed the song, murdered the dance—
but I was frightened by that glance.
That meaning hidden in your rhymes
unveiled a mirror too many times.
Silent reflections disregard!
I’ll make my music mad.
Be flat or sharp, O silent bard.
This easy path is far too hard.
Now faster yet. Know no retard.
All rests and pauses disregard!
Play music in this grim boneyard,
and make the rhythm mad.
Tale Told 