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Schrödinger's Cat.

By: BitterAlmonds
Competition Year: 2013
Votes (1) | Comments (0)
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There are ladders to climb
And octaves to descend;
There are people to kill,
There are people to die;
There’s God,
Whistling Bach in orchestral overtures;

He’ll never know,
What the burnish of mortality
Does to this little fugue,
To the little soul of this contrapuntal existence,
This little exercise of respiration and madness,
Phobia and darkness, flesh and ash—

This squinted little life!

There are songs that’ll never live;
They’ll never plunge
Into the arcane chaos of time and timing,
Reason and occasion,
This life, this funeral;
Never stardust and never moss!

They’ll never be whistled,
Or sung, unsung; hung,
For some defect in structure,
In soul, or lyric, in policy,
Opinion, or inflexion;
Never judged upon implication, meaning,

Of the sludged melodic resonances of gloom,
Or the echoing distortion of spirits
In the solemn piano keys—
The mumbles, the moans,
The convolutions of cries,
Last, very last, cries.

There are songs that’ll never live.
That’ll always be just music,
Free in soul, in time.
Unborn:
Always dead,
And always alive!
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