The dark sounds of the aether
rain from without upon me
but, I think, how can they?
For the aether has no sound.
It must be my speaker vibrating.
But my complex soul
more so than any simple wave
is shaken corewise
and threshed of all calm
Where they used to cite the iliad,
the oddysey and the comedy,
or mahler or wagner, they were right.
But I, with equal right,
cite Skyrim, for holding my hand
and guiding me through the mess of life.
Each moment planned, as it were.
But iterations of an artwork.
And shining with a snowy light.