Poem -Sound

It stutters into life

Like the last breath of a dying spaceship,

Ornamental jazz means more to me,

Than the chatter of my fellow creatures,

To be assailed, assaulted by this blast of air-sounds,

Go away, go away, I want to shriek at them,

The citadel on an island in the lake,

Filled with the words of long-dead men,

My sanctuary, my lifeline, 

Away and apart from the blathering of mankind 

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