I have heard the strains of my heart
played though a deep brass bell,
blown over finger holes, blown apart.
I have risen, time and again, from a hell
composed by my own quill, hole
punched in the page, until my cage
has bars and rests, until it rolls
as an avalanche or a sage
downhill in melody, until I start
to hear it enter a silence, swell
to madness, into a rage
far stronger than begets my age.