Song pollution. noise in hundreds. The smog is humming your worst, and we all cough it up. Given a shape to them, the words in a fury. Some stuck in your airways. The grayness overhead. There are choices: past and prison. You have unmade tons, but can you make one? Light skews the borders the dark in exile for once. The shadows from before lurk behind the day moon. The night keeps its distance, keeps you in a question. All the days halt. There's a block, a loss. Wrote our injuries and it's tragic. Disasters in a pattern swarm and waste your youth. Your din still grips the ground the space between mountains, Where the sound will settle itself and rest inside you. Crippled instruments nearly collapsing. What's ripe now is about to rot on the branches or in your stomach.