Yang s swan song

Well, after all
I tag along
with your untimely idea
and my late call,
a swan song ,
to extol
the heart  echoed with feelings
as its true voice.
Instead
victorious parades
and extrication 
a static noise
invades
the cardio-vibrations
and terminates
free-minded flow
to dominate
expressions on a brow.
With strangled eyes
and lips ajar
a word can’t last a trice
so far.
I send my troubled lately gasp,
a syllable with seen-thorough wings
and sharpen sting,
a quality of wasps,
to nip your slurring  in the bud.
Electrifying air
reveals its  touchiness
by making ifs
less feasible  to scud,
too scrawny for a dud
to stick
in any party’s gullet
for silence cracks
in unintentional
“enough”,
a silver,
dipped in not-so-holy water,
bullet.
An ear-shell concert hall
is tightly shut.
No public seats
remain obtainable,
nor written scores
for orchestra
are now retainable.
The symphony
of pure cacophony
plays well on nerves
and every note
falls where it deserves.
The wall of thuds
cleaves our  brushed rapport.
With baring teeth
we fight it back
and claws.
With towering the losses
and pretending wins,
for all it’s worth,
the yang
can’t swim as swan
in frigid waters
of the yin.

13 October 2011