Expectation is faulty reality.
Except music.
Expect music to move wave-like
and tumble down the drone
as though the souls of words
are frigates or freighters or rowboats
bow bent to arguments to laments
of how it might have been if only
if only the drummer had not become
lost in the discordant rhythms
of vowels and consonants
constantly breaking against each event
with a variable length
of arguments. As though the sun
resting on an arm
dripping into an embrace arrives
one syllable at a time
One chord at a time
each bit perceived as noise
and not as love.