The Music

The wise hate the wailing of the harp;
They hate the guttural chords,
And howling melodies.

In the society's decadence, 
The music turns to emotive phrase,
And guttural noise;
When at its peak,
The music was peace.

So also, does the harp and lyre
Fill every decadent room,
Every ear is held to the shell
So they can listen to the sea
Of melodies.
At their labor, art permeates every corridor.
The ubiquitous noise omnipresent
So that nowhere can you ever hear again
The pleasant noise of people's voices
In their bubbly hubbub.

Rather, all there is is the music
In its guttural noises, 
And strong, emotive sounds;
Filling all who hear it with stirring melancholy.
Or, with lusty anger and hot sex.
And everywhere it is...
You cannot escape it.

I had thought I lost this poem,
But providence desired it to be sung once more.