Nocturne

Each string resonates.
Each forms a dissonance with the previous.

No phrasing, no key.
No thematic structure.

No Debussian beauty about it.

The twang almost perforates my drum. Inaudible but memorable.
Nevertheless: stinging.
No chance of a callous to shield the raw flesh. It's triturated.

Something bellowed from the clouds. A promising bellow, accompanied by an enlightening harmony.

* * *

Fantastically: a paragon; realistically: paradigmatic.

Beneath my dignity to climb a tree

All children, except one, grow up.
I put my faith in an awfully big adventure and have been held back by your hook.
You're lost and disturbed. It's uncomfortable.
And although you've boarded a ship, you will never disembark that island: your mental microcosm.

The many scrap books among heaps of shredded paper won't let you.
You can scar yourself with nostalgia eternally but your skin will grow whether your mind does or not.

You are static.
I'm jumping on the wind's back.