sound is a surface,
unto itself by sensing's disguise.
sound is the surface confessing,
as air is the snitch in loud mouth assistance.
by the strong-arm of motion,
virtually everything is audio,
but way outside of our sensory range.
inanimates chatter.
wind produces soloists.
all the micros are of a constant babble.
even the macros offer
a symphony of chitchat.
much more, the clarity of each species
is in sound.
we accept and recognize those sounds
but we don't hear our skin.
tickle is not standard melodious.
yet we only hear the affect of rain
but necessarily the delivery.
we are but forks on a plate of consumption,
where sound lives its deepest truths.
we are neighborhoods away,
not even echos can be heard,
no trees in the forest,
not even the loudness of imposed silence
will author the truth.
that sound is the last breath
before matter does not exist any more.
even all of matter
only remembers the chorus
while the universe continues to sing
beyond what senses claim.
we are, at best, prescribed octaves
in a lower case aware.
where the world of visual would end,
sound will continue to march on.
if time had a dimension,
one outstanding dimension,
sound would be a parenting enterprise.
not a sigh or a whimper
but a sonic beyond blast,
an overwhelm crossdressing
as silence in bloom . . .
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