That lyre,
Apollos hand-me-down,
An instrument of antiquity,
That sound,
Each tone more shrill than the last,
Thundercracks across string,
I hate it,
I hate those aural pangs,

They scrape across my cranium,
Nails upon chalk,
Leaving invisible scars,
There is nothing divine about this sound,
No virtue from its turtle shell frame,
It is a miserable dirge of angst,
Plucked free by the fingers of demons,
Inflicting naught but malady.

Comments
  1. Carol anne says:

    awesome! Great job on this one! X

  2. Ah well done! Love the meanings and sounds in the word “lyre” so much can be read into words with similar sound. Brilliantly penned!

    • Osharlequin says:

      I wasn’t too familiar with the instrument a few days ago, but after some reading up I had to write something. ☺️ Thank you kindly!

      The Oldschool Harlequin

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