Wave

There is no end. Compressions cut
a path, high and loud, wide and high
pitched to my tiny little hairs
to which my brain responds
back and forth. Hirsute noise.

Go low, slow the energetic down
and wrap the waveform
languidly around, skipping rope
of long, strong lucid sound.

These wax-plugs invent distraction.
And the sinusoidal peaks, troughs
warble to become insensate.
Thank you. I welcome such purity.