(Must I un-wish?)
The rash of the Hebrides, and its wrath,
The son of lands, and lands amazed,
That sheer a composition, in the fair hands,
Of Mendelssohn that grown from the stems,
And tendrils, furtive maelstrom in sound,
And bearing without a formal syntax,
(Must I un-wish, and wish again?)
Skins, music skins and therefore wonders,
Though in conjecture, rings a formal resound,
For the most marvelous and beautiful sound,
But, I digress, I digress. Music, my maelstrom (much love to you),
I have loved the best.
Those drips, so keen beyond life,
I cannot overlook those hidden sounds
And songs, proof of life.
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Pseudopsychosis. 