Beatless Rhythm

Rebecca Davis


There she sits
With furrowed scowl,
Reminding me of power
A long, pointy finger
Instructs me, constructs me
Into the pattern of our age.
Yet I hear a whisper in my mind’s ear,
A beatless rhythm calling to my soul
I attempt to stop and listen
To a voice I seem to know
But the metronome plays on
Drowning out the song.

The clock tocks and ticks
He slams his angry fist
The tolling bell resonates
Shattering emerging foundations
Delicate thoughts never laid
Precepts never layered
Before the hour steals the mind away.

The clicking, ticking tyrant
Pushes me to shallow things
Wells of wisdom never dug
I am thirsty amidst a wet world
Rivers bend and resound
Rhythms without beat
Patterns of perfect “imperfection”
They beckon me to a feast
Yet, the age slaps my fingers
Demanding I play its boxy beat
The bell tolls for me, threatening,
Condemning my “irresponsibility”
Why should I listen?
I have already tasted its death.

Page  Eleven



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