John 1:3

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The insects and the birds sing out their sounds

As if to make a choir of imps combined

With seraphim all singing separate rounds

Together, notes and screes of noise entwined

In one cacophony of Bach-like fugue.

For this there is no medication though

You wish and wish and yearn for febrifuge.

This sickening symphony is far too slow.

It darkens days and dims the twilight hours.

It isn’t satisfied to limit stain

To these times only.  It provokes its powers

In dawns, engulfing them in sin-like pain.

This bug and bird cantata is from Christ

Since He made all, with cyanide sound spiced.

© Phillip Whidden