MUSIC OF THE PEERS

No one’s suited to conduct,
Since no one writes the symphony.
No leading light stands to instruct,
So we all play on whimsically.
There is no common alphabet
Of tones set just so far apart,
No universal, sacred set
Of sounds that mimic human heart.
We play each our ordained genre
We think that we ourselves created,
And trill in single, flat entendre
That someone else half-orchestrated,
Because nobody can compos
A consonance for these and those.

Yet there’s still that common beat
Binding all in rhythmic cadence,
That drone of drum that moves all feet,
All souls to dance into abeyance
All we made up to instill
Illusion that we are distinct,
By virtue of some special will,
And words, and by the way we “think.”
The drums reduce us all to one,
Not just us, but all the beasts,
Percussed into what must be done
To guarantee tomorrow’s meats.

Written February 1, 2023
©2023 Lawrence Helms