This is the cadence can you feel the pulse?
Are you moving to the drumbeat as it drives on a war?
This is the scansion have you marked it out yet?
Can you foresee the movements as the strategos plans?
But then the tenor shifts to port
The boatswain vents his wrath
And hapless sailors strain at ropes
Their rhythm strains their skin.
When drumbeats shift with every breeze
And soldiers march to syncopation,
The trusting stare at sneering faces
while priests partake in dissipation.
It’s well and good to categorize
To map the change and theorize
To test the wind, and guess its source –
The philosopher never compromised.
Theoreticians cannot be pure.
To be gnostic is to lie.
We are the boatswain.
The rain whips our eyes.
How do you keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming, shouting, messing up the verse,
While the wind howls and the ship bears directly for the rocks?
How do you rally the orchestra after the audience screams?
If you answer, “You don’t.”
Then the chaos wins.
There is no music.
You are the noise.