Lo-Fi 1

Breathe.

Close your eyes.

Let the music be

and flood you, fill you, flow within you.

As it softly courses through you, feel the way it rolls, the way it wanes and waxes.

Breathe.

This is it.

This is its purpose.

It was made to be enjoyed by you,

just the same as you were made to enjoy it.

Let the warmth of sound caress you and cover you.

You know the feeling.

Sun over your skin.

Dawn spreading across an open field.

Or maybe a soft embrace, sweet and slow, under a starlit sky.

Breathe.

Music grows,

And becomes everything.

No time, only rhythm.

No world, only sound.

No thought.

Breathe.

Lark's Head

Thoughts and thoughts and thoughts

a tree grows and grows, green and silver, every leaf a thought every fruit a hope

and they rot and they rot and they rot

They fall and they cover the ground with black stench and miasma

with red-white hate with red-black hate

with energy spent on inaction

with rancour spent in regret

The stench grows and the hate grows and the black putrid indifference covers everything in a shroud of soft fruit and maggots.

Every leaf is hidden and the grass underneath is hidden and there is nothing but hate and hate and hate and pain and pain and pain. And every caress is an insult and every phrase is mockery and the best intentions are pity. 

There is no end.

There is no end.

There is no end.

Until it all ends.

Until a quietus is made, with bare bodkin or swift lark's head.

A quietus is made.

It all ends.