To bury yourself beneath a wall of Sound

I find myself sometimes in love
with the sound of things
almost beyond my control.

And that noise,
tightly wound with
the tension of one hundred years
but pouring out release
rising and falling on
itself
all at once.

It is alive, but
it is not a snake;
it is too massive and pure
it is not a bird;
it is too human and heavy
It is all four walls collapsing on me
it is all the waves in the Pacific
colliding with all those of the Atlantic
The sound is God.

The distortion rising now;
I let it come as
my fingers fall across the strings
again.

The sound is now eating itself;
the static overpowered by static,
warmth bleeding into the room.
the deceitful speakers trying to hide from me;
they implode on themselves.

The sound is a heart beating in a room composed of paper walls that let the rain come in and the rain whispers that everything is so full of strength and hope and weakness, meek years, half-hearted attempts and the ones that almost killed you, fake nostalgia and trying like a child again, mostly you but sometimes the collective idea of you, and maybe that time we spent the day in the field in our underwear or even the time we got lost in the city and couldn't get home again but we didn't mind so much.