Hearing the high-register flute tones Drift up from downstairs- Not sweetly like the angels' song Or gently like a bird's: But forcefully, repetitively, Like the sound of a car's anti-theft alarm, Has slowly heated my mind past its boiling point.
And now the walls are closing in And the water's running black from the tap And it's dripping down your cheeks Flowing like your endless grievous tears.
We can't accomplish anything we set out to do You call me and we babble for an hour About nothing. You'd had something important to say But it never came out- Your plans like the half-formed sneeze that looms imminent And then inexplicably disappears forever.