Noise
Modern feet in synthetic soles still march
lockstep to ancient beats born millennia ago
when human hands first fit animal skin over
wood and bone.
Dead god rituals resonating through time,
stored still in heartbeats, hooves upon
the ground, and recreated through clicking
steam and metal.
But static was the first son, and chaos,
his first breath--
The arrhythmic pulse
that lives beyond the scope of
man's crafted dance,
beyond the grip of entropy
that promises an end
to all active sound.
He insinuates himself in radio waves
spread across the scope of galaxies
and transmits cryptic messages to his
prophets of noise.
Their sorrowful, hunched shoulders
hide faces twisted in ecstasy,
perverting the methods of lesser melody,
chords and meter.
For an instant, ears glimpse the end of time,
when noise bubbles through silent
space and static is the last son.
Noise and nothingness.
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