Hearing Aids

These two headphones,

Are an escape route.

The ears can breakout  

From the streams

Of steady screams;

The incessant shouts,

Endlessly fought bouts,

The attacking tones...

...The delirium inciting disturbances,

Which cause such a perturbation;

Are nullified by the ear buds services,

They offer the psyche salvation.

The

Metrically unregulated

Is

Symmetrically amalgamated.

From every wave…

(The thieving mob

No longer robs

The thoughts train

Noisy raiders

Mind invaders

Driving insane)

…Hearing aids save.

Conceptualizing concentration

Will achieve purification,

Focused aesthetic articulation

Will conceive beautification,

Adverse auditory stimulation

Will receive eradication.

Composed By: A. D.

The Tariff Of Deviating Slugs

 In the eventide air, she walks destitute, filled to capacity with pain and sorrow;

As she passes many people stare, their looks are as cold

As the late night atmosphere. Shuffling along, curious “Will there be a tomorrow”?

The answer remains unclear – all hope has been sold…

…Into a bottle, which she grips tight; it`s her loving baby

Who`ll rock her to sleep tonight. Her stomach is growling aloud,

Roaring to be filled – to be fed. There`s a chance – maybe

As she asks other souls for bread, no longer proud…

…This emotion died long ago, along with the life of her only child.

Previous post-traumatic effects began to show, and then she also lost her mind;

Since then she woefully roamed, appearing more savage and wild.

Her hair is no longer combed, but there is no ferocity in her eyes, any can find.

Only her broken heart – replaying the sounds of paramedics and gunshots,

The ripping of a struggling life torn apart. The doctors would explain

The cause of deaths was due to both: surgical complications and blood clots.

Their last living breath, became the final fatal wound to her brain.

“Get a job” a man scornfully yelled, as she collapsed sullenly on a church stoop;

Her well-worn clothes smelled, as she silently drank.

Utterly ignored except by the man; whose vicious words, were that night’s soup;

In her inebriated pernicious state, her mind went blank.

In her destroyed dreams, she saw her son`s five year old face;

And she felt the impact of his father’s dying yells, in her dreamscape.

She was awoke to sunshine, by an unseen poke;

And she dropped the bottle, which shattered and broke.

Her God`s name, she would thankfully invoke, as her eyes joyfully soaked;

Invisible angels left her large banknote, and covered her in a warm cloak.

Composed By: A. D.

I just wanted to take a quick moment to thank anyone who views the site, and to wish everyone happy holidays. Sorry for the compliant, I just am not doing well; but I am extremely thankful/grateful for those of you who take the time to read the work. I wish you the very best. 

A Token in Honor of Tolkien

“Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, Ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.” -The One Ring Inscription

Smoking a cigarette, on these New York streets.

Watching the masses pass;

While all the stress is expelled and retreats,

These lyrics slowly amass.

Every time the heart feels defeated,

And all hope has been conceded;

The mind contemplates Frodo and the ring,

Such a small stature and such a tiny thing.

Yet, with the possession of the Golden Ring of Power;

Even the insignificant, threaten the eye in its tower.

Every time the mind focuses and creates a heartfelt rhyme,

The spirit feels as if it escapes the pursuit of the Nine.

Taking the heirloom of the poetic kinsmen, passed down,

The conscious sets out for Mount Doom – there it is bound.

Drifting along, in darkness and silence;

With little signs of bloodshed or violence…

{ { On September 23, 3018, he departed in the dead of night,

Travelling past Tom Bombadil and a barrow wright.

He arrived in the eve, at the village of Bree;

Feeling his spirit, becoming the ring`s devotee.

Resuming his quest, he moved and was pursued non-stop;

Until the night he made camp at a location called Weathertop.

It was there he received a deadly wound,

And felt his life flee as eyes swooned.

The impending death, however, would not prevail –

He was spared, thanks to Elrond of Rivendell;

Through the restorative powers of his spell,

The effects of the Morgul Blade – the elf would curtail.

After the council, he resumed his journey;

Which was a fortitude testing tourney.

In January, he entered the west gate of Moria,

Where the endless darkness consumed all euphoria.

His mystic companion fell, as they fled across the bridge;

He was overcome by sudden solace, his heart was a fridge.

Against the calamity which he was feeling –

Against the painful emotion – his character was steeling.

His company entered Lothlorien, his mind still reeling;

Possession of the trinket, he made attempts at concealing.

Lady Galadriel, however, would not be deceived;

Staring into her mirror, many things he perceived.

Though for his loss, he still grieved;

His pain, her words almost relieved.

Having proceeded, in February, from his company he strayed;

And at Parth Galen, by a friendly-faced foe, he was betrayed.

The fellowship, he felt forced to forsake;

Although in his departure, he felt his heart break –

Only Sam, he could not lose or shake;

Together the course through Emyn Muil they`d take.

In that maze, they met Gollum, and he saw his own visage;

So many similarities, in that distorted, wretched image.

In March, Gollum guided their march across the Dead Marshes;

Frodo`s existence, now, unraveled by the adventure`s harshness.

Broken, but committed, they pushed to Morannon – the impenetrable gate;

And at the vile sight – the entrance to a land without light – hiding, he cursed fate.

With a bit of blessed luck, the crew was brought to the window of the sunset;

Where the hospitable graces of Faramir, would be hard for them to forget.

Then again, he watched the same king he gave him a wound, upon the Morgul Vale;

He grew pale with fear, but from his purpose, his feet would not flee – nor derail.

Further along, in the depths of Shelob`s Lair,

There he understood true solitude and despair.

Still, hope remained – Wise Sam came to the rescue;

With bonds unchained – together they`d see the task through.   

Escaping dark servants and orcs, they arrived at the foot of Mount Doom;

And cast away their gear, while heading towards the sweltering room.

But even in Sammath Naur, in that chamber of fire;

Frodo gave in – to the ring`s spell – power`s lust and desire. } }

… Lady Galadriel`s voice rings in the ear,

The message sent, repeats perfectly clear:

“To bear a ring of power, is to be alone”

So the lips smile, and mouth attempts not to moan.

No matter how many friendly faces surround this mentality,

There always remains a loneliness which none seem to see.

They fail to understand how the heart can remain empty,

When (always) it is consumed by the One Ring of Poetry.

From its clutches, the mind is never free;

It circumscribes the spirit`s entirety – endlessly.

True pain felt when not writing,

No other stimulation is exciting.

The harder, the heart fights to disconnect;

The more life, feels incomplete and incorrect.

Whenever the sadness or depression, threatens to steal the joy like a crook;

The hand places the powerful and precious ring on,

And the body disappears – and the conscious is gone –

Hidden, concealed, undercover, and existing only within the pages of the notebook.

Composed By: A. D.

A Battle In Ephesus on 6/10

Ephesians 6:10 "Finally, my brethren, be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might." -KJV

When the flesh and metabolism grow weak

A new source of energy my spirit will seek

A fountain of everlasting light fills inside

In a mountain of immovable protection do I reside

In a spiritual divide, all dreams I shall confide

Where the energy supplied, will never subside

The enemy has no ability to affect my mind while I am there

This safe haven is impenetrable by black arts and desolation

Providing a protective army, though I`m in terrestrial isolation

Faith in both the celestial Son and Father of all creation

Though this fallible flesh is exposed and stands bare

It`s fully clothed, in the armor of God, which I wear

At times darkness will overcome

With a power which is awesome

But, even when all else is stripped

By unseen foes – my adornment is ripped

Onto one final piece, my beaten hands grasp

The only equipment left in my fallen clasp…

…For every defense, which others have peeled –

I stand-fast – with no more than this faithful shield.

Composed By: A. D.

New York Shores

Curious – will your mind be, these verses Fortunato,

Buried alive behind a wall – waves of vocabulary?

The poems distill and spill an amorous Amontidillo,

And their structure is cleaned – refined with mental Brillo.

The lyrical displays are filled with a meek bravado,

From a mind that spends most of its time – solitary.

There are millions of currents, and waves in these oceans;

Which pass by one observant perception.

Each individual wave shares with others – one connection…

(Though perhaps it chooses the way it will roll)

…Together the water forms, comprises and creates – a whole.

An apparent network of billions of thoughts and personal emotions.

Each wave subtly influencing and affecting (effecting) the next,

Much like the choice and voice of diction within a chosen text.

In each passing instant, some waves crest, while others fall;

Some waves are at their best, while others are losing it all.

Though, the overall course is uncertain (when viewed through a narrow lens);

When the scope is broadened (and the perception takes a step back),

It`s easier to see the curvature: all the various ebbs and the different bends –

The small variations in the flow, and the way which the waves interact.

The singular perception spends each and all of its days, watching the movements in the surf;

In silence, it views and surveys – and to their entertainment – through versification – it is a serf.

Composed By: A. D.

Symphony Number 1 (To Lyra)

The PERCUSSIONS of the discussion now primed,

The STRINGS of statements prepped and well-timed,

The WINDS expelled from the mind are well-rhymed;

The orchestration begins, with all instruments combined.

A joyous melody, exceeds the zenith, of the former plausible ascension.

Explicit tones, precedes the implicit meanings, avoiding initial apprehension;

Until one reads and reviews the notes, with a discerning comprehension.

The prevailing tune leaves minds stuck, in a hypnotic state of suspension;

The rhymes and verses – inky black steeds, galloping to escape retention.

Harmony moving at speeds, which overcome the pace of light;

The metaphysical seeds, now implanted, overrun the mental sight.

The music soulfully pleads (still unsung) for life, strangled in a lyrical fight.

The experience feeds the imagination of one, like winds filled with might;

The air the spirit needs to rise, into the sun, in a versified form of flight.

Once the confusion recedes (Blurs undone) there`ll be no enigmatic plight.

Within the depths of the mind`s dark mire, a spark first is created with ire;

Then like added bark into a fire, it becomes the fuel for the stark burning desire.

Racing against time, to the mark; it grows higher, impelled to the arc, upward in a spire.

Flames in a protective ark, so the bard`s eternal flame expelled (without a lyre) won`t expire.

In the composer`s soul - he, often assumes and, presumes some semblance of control;

But understands the flare (which he cannot see), is like a primitive beast: wild and free.

While this untamed blaze, continues its captivating phase

(Like the sounds on sheet music, which a musician plays

The memory of each past position – a remnant – never stays

While each current moment – the present – always strays

Into another, still) the still continuum continues to amaze.

Each new beautiful step is becoming tantamount

To a steppe, no previous pristine plain can surmount;

Although in the preceding plane, the mind can recount,

And attempt to quantify each memoir’s valued amount.

Regardless, no obsolete scorching innuendo, no chronicled crescendo;

No prior ingenious cento, will ever prove to be a more valuable memento…

…Then the elucidation, the will`s conflagration, the mortal consecration;

Of this instant and the symphonic, melodic, harmonic – perfect observation.

Composed By: A. D.

Love Your Enemies

When they used tell him to “delete himself”, yelling

Other painful terms, outside his place of dwelling;

In a violent rage and fury he would fly;

Like a meteor, cast down from the sky.

It once hurt and damaged him to hear the insults,

(Having already felt quite depressed)

Each affront would accomplish its desired results,

Of causing him to feel more stressed

(Yet, now he feels – mostly blessed).

Although his emptiness, is multiplied by loneliness…

…When he descends to the cold sidewalk,

A joyful smile is across his countenance;

Although he apprehends their vicious talk,

He`s filled with a peaceful confidence.

Grinning not because there is no pain,

Joyful not due to the old salty rain;

But filled with something impossible to contain,

A feeling no hate can ever restrain or constrain.

The slurs of nasty energy,

Are LOVE, after some synergy;

Intentions to cause a loss, responsible for a gain.

If only he could explain, he is “sorry they feel that way”;

Upon arrival, none approach, to hear what he has to say.                         

Composed By: A. D.

Projection

Sitting on a stoop, in the dead of winter;

Another warm state, the heart seeks to enter.

These simply sultry-styled verses, wrap around the poem like a glove;

Conforming, adorning, and fitting – snug.

This amenity accentuated is an addicting drug;

The entirety of the lyrics entity, is the intoxicating, amorous effect of love.

Sent from the sedentary location, upon this concrete seat:

Past the present manifestations of this temporal place,

Bent across the hereditary lines, still yet conceived – incomplete.

To the ensuing, viewing generations – some indistinct face.

To bring you hope, a sense of entertainment and ease

To help your mind thaw and unwind

Should your thoughts bind and if you find

The stress of anxiety is rigid, the environment of society is frigid

As the briskly blowing winter breeze, on nights like these.

Don`t let any other chill, kill the strength of your will;

Remain the illustration of an individual,

Not the representation of their residual.

And all things above, fill your heart with love.

Composed By: A. D.

Satisfied To Be

His remarks of an instant, shifts directions like the breeze;

And in all verbal conversation, he feels unsure and unease.

Two-way tongue wagging, his distracted brain feels forced to weather;

While written conceptions, slip from the frame, like a falling feather.

Even when talking to himself, he feels his expression at stake;

Waiting to be silently writing, when the façade can take a break.

In those moments, he can stop the streams of thought;

And decide if he means what he is about to say.

If it is a statement which, confusion and ignorance wrought;

He can change the idea, and rephrase it another way.

No need to appear cool or tough, no superficial presentation,

All the edgy and the rough, is smoothed through concentration,

No social standards he feels he needs to appease,

No passing audience he imagines he has to please,

No ADD impulses ideas sparking into different directions,

Focusing on his meaning (without distracting interjections).

In those moments, sorrow he can turn into productivity,

And anger can be used positively and constructively.

Where his personality is not determined by, a line verbal attractions;

But consists of the intricate web, of his many loving caring, actions.

Where the stain of each mistake, neither composes nor breaks;

The certainty of who he is, and the mosaic his spirit makes.

Where no matter how much damage he takes, underneath his guard;

He can continue to defy the stakes, improving slowly, by trying hard.

Is it weak, cowardly, or erroneous – to expose emotions many feel

(But deny to reveal to another person’s eye)?

Should he seek to dispose of (and in notions which conceal)

His imperfect truth, in favor of a perfect lie?

How can he contemplate the phrases he is saying,

When (in the moments they are spoken

His concentration is torn and broken)

All thoughts – still focused on his silent word playing?

The words which emanate from his indifferent lips

Are as empty as the barren winter air;

But, in the statements of these loving versified trips,

Are flurries of truth falling everywhere!

Sure, there is some honesty in talk, like an actor playing a role;

But, honestly – it`s mostly devoid chatter – nonsense on a whole.

For in each moment, the conscious is consumed, by a passion – sole;

To represent, when the writing is resumed, the passions of his soul.

Composed By: A. D.

Double Displacement Reaction

The black ink lies – now dried (seems it is asleep on the sheet) –

Like those nightmare tears, those water bound fears;

One soul previously cried, after being shredded and torn by deceit –

Once this initial perspective clears, the movement appears

And the liquid, from the pen – separated, becomes complete.

Each letter is awake and active (though presumed inert);

The writing is highly reactive, once it`s caused to convert.

The first chemical compound (found in the words of the speaker);

Makes no audible sound, as it rests (dormant) in the glass beaker.

Step One:

Start with concepts – a solution of vinegar (distilled with amorous vigor).

Step Two:

Add reading eyes – white, crystalline reagents (our own baking soda;

The catalyst is the print, symphonious – from a mind in mental rigor).

Step Three:

Once both unify, the reaction will be harmonious (proceed to the coda).

In the end the still conversation will react;

Through this mesmerizing melody, and the cadence captivating.

The heart hopes to enact a satisfying impact,

Through aimless rhymes, only created to be artfully stimulating.

Composed By: A. D.        

Begin Your Campaign into the Territory of Artistry

Start by closing your eyes, visualizing your goal, and

Departing on innovative adventure.

The way ahead, black – unknown; the end certain – when you find the emerald lawn.

Golden rays in the heaven, are above this grass; where all your dreams will spawn.

Follow the pathway, venture

Further, take the soul past every turn and bend.

In the meadow are untended, enslaved fantasies; which wait to be set free, from the dirt cage.

These previously, planted imaginations can be unlocked and grown, despite any age.

They lie dormant like the (unseen, underground) seeds of flowers, awaiting rain to give them birth;

And their colorful petals will fill the grassland, through the showers of: your focus, love, care, and mirth.

To arrive at this hidden pasture you must: traverse desolate lands, under storm clouds of doubt;

Tempests which turn around, those with hearts unbidden, and strive to keep the indecisive out -

Or keep tentative travelers lost, in the barren desert of despair, and maze of fear;

Sure souls remember, as it seems more hopeless, the closer they are drawing near…

…To a sunny, imaginary, fertile, creative safe haven;

A field where all the inner ambitions you sow

Will continue, unhindered, to passionately grow

(Even when in reality, your sky is colored raven).

There will be two-faced foes in life, who`ll attempt, to dissuade you from your quest;

With sounds of envious echoes, and bitter contempt – your conviction, they will test.

Your expedition, will take you along many sorrowful miles;

And the adversaries will highlight each time you slip,

The rivals will ridicule and laugh as your eyes drip,

Setting up snares and pitfalls, with many wily guiles.

Even, your own pride (may) cause you to backslide, so the ego – strip;

In your own God confide, and recall the reason for your artistic trip.

You will learn to shed all the socially conformed concerns,

Staying steadfast; as others try to lay waste to your arable, aspirations space

(Endure the heat of the fire, although it sometimes burns).

Through dedication, you will paste an astounded, dumbfounded look on their face;

When they realize with haste, how they helped make cultivable - the land of your place.

When you arrive, simply smile and take pleasure, in your magnificent perception;

As you bring alive, with personal style, every measure of your vibrant conception.

Composed By: A. D.

Righting Write

,Grace your for thanks gave I as

.Right write to how learned I

;Face holy your to glory gave

.Insight with, me filled thanks

!You as much as failure forgive none, for

;Light holy your, compassion limitless your

.True and through, space fallible this, grace

.Right write to how me taught you

,Inscribing pointless the all for, and

;Write to how knew never I

,Backsliding endless the all for – learned

 .Contrite “truly” feel to how

;Due is honor all, Lord dear, you to

,Tonight soul my on will your write

.Knew never I that of path the right

(You teach me still how to write right!)

A. D. :By Composed

Hymn 86

In times of peace, I lived and did thing my own foolish way;

No concern for the commands you made.

Ignoring the black and white, seeing selfish shades of grey;

This is how the game of life was played.

I was unable to shed my sense of pride,

Letting devilish demons reside inside.

ALWAYS in your graces, I didn`t abide;

Of the two masters served, I didn`t decide.

Yet, in times of need I called upon your name;

Expecting you to bring peace, unto this frame.

This weak flesh, the soul`s accouterments plain;

And enemies threatened to drive me insane.

Still, each time I felt halfway into the grave;

Your love and forgiveness continued to save.

I understand the error of my indecisive ways;

Truly, awoken from this confusing mortal daze.

So, of the two masters, I choose the three;

The Father, The Son, The Ghost – The Trinity.

Slowly, steadily, I continue to shed the old existence;

Following your loving ways, with a new persistence.

I only pray for your guidance, teach how to better walk upon the path;

Neither left nor right, straight and narrow, leading away from wrath.

Composed By: A. D.

A Koch Snowflake

-https://www.khanacademy.org/

In the snowy downfall, flakes create a stream of white,

Which washes away all the dark visions of midnight.

The alabaster snow has made its silent descent,

From the vast silver sky, through which it was sent.

The frozen sleet wraps around the ground,

A blanket covers, but no warmth is found.

The atmosphere is amplified, by tones of ivory;

On this newly dawned day, in this modern city.

This environment – a pristine sheet of fresh purity;

Yet, untouched, unblemished, presented perfectly.

The eyes watch the passage of time, and each falling flurry;

The scene transposes before them, in a rapid, flashing hurry.

The dust and gravel falls slowly and softly, in the arid weather;

Magical drifting downward, each speck is a descending feather.

Precipitating particles, stream in motions, like the flow of the Nile;

And float below, to the river bed, where they multiply and pile.

Grains of sand, are creating small dunes, which mostly lie inert;

But sometimes, they dance actively, in the winds of the desert.

All around are infinitesimal powdery pyramids;

Multiple formations, composing veritable myriads.

Conclaves and oases litter the Egyptian landscape,

Providing refuges where one can make an escape.

Like city storefronts, safe heavens from blinding sandstorms;

Frigid, rigid grains which pierce the flesh, like stinging thorns.

Suddenly the environments of two – the divisor, and the dividend;

Form a quotient of one, with no remainder – together they blend.

On the face of New York`s blank slate, in the reticence;

Each passing soul leaves, remnants behind, an artistic imprint.

Each person’s paces lead off into various remote directions;

Creating an intimate web, a variety of distant connections.

To the pale hue, they add their own beautifully colored glint;

Shadowy traces, in debossed spaces – the evidence.

Stranger’s stories which end in unknown destinations;

Inscribed trails, to explore or ignore, on the concrete shore.

Each step relays, to an attentive observation, the moments of embossed tale;

The fables are, composed of figures and symbols, written in a glacial braille.

Décor is galore, adorned along this icy, wasteland’s floor;

Creative impressions remain, on the earthen foundations.

Each residual track is an unintended memento,

Each personal print is a measure, of a pacing tempo.

Revealing the natural artwork of humanity,

On a snowy canvas where all eyes can see.  

Footsteps endure (for a time), left behind like ancient sacred writing;

Deciphering the hieroglyphics, tells of adventures which are exciting.

Composed By: A. D.

Slap-a-Loaf (Pat-a-Cake)

As the full moon was overtaken by the rising sun,

A man`s serious ambition was mistaken for fun.

The baker arrived early to work this morn,

To ensure his products were properly born.

The chilly dawn air was crisp and fresh,

Falling all around like grain within thresh.

The golden rays blared among the bluish haze;

Like a trumpet solo, which a blues player plays.

The baker smiled wide at the beautiful scene,

Everywhere he looked his grin cast a gleam.

He took in this moment, then into the bakery, he quickly set off;

As door hinges yawned, and a floorboard squeaked out a cough.

Once inside, he placed his tired apron around his waist;

And checked all of his friends, with bustling haste.

The ovens were alert, as he pushed their buttons (with power);

The sink and the faucet, first took a refreshing (and quick) shower.

Sheet pans rattled, as they sprung forth from their sleeping racks;

Mixing bowls mumbled, awake - though resting on their round backs.

Rolling pins rumbled, and fumbled, as they rolled out of their rest;

Measuring spoons stopped snuggling together, in their little nest.

Then, of course, there was the Batter of the lazy flour;

Which always Kneaded to be awoken, at this early hour.

Now that all were fully risen, and totally alert -

The group began to prepare, both bread and desert.

The air was filled, with the aromatic sweat of their undertaking;

The luscious fumes released, from their intense, delicious baking.

As the group finished hours later, the first sleepy customers arrived;

But, before the baker opened the shop (to serve products made with pride)

The grinning baker thanked his friends, for the help which they had supplied.

Composed By: A. D.

Aggrieved Each Nightfall Ad Infinitum

With great effort his essence sought to deny each and every pleasure,

The variety of distractions which his body often found in leisure.

The only actual joy, which his heart would still value and treasure:

Subtle improvements of his dreams, by an incremental measure.

His tormented flesh, called for him to cease;

The endless pursuit, of his imagination`s release.

Still, the objective`s capture, he`d continue to increase;

Despite all the temptations, which plagued his peace.

His social existence was in a barren condition;

No time for any, except personal ambition -

And, while he acknowledged this lonely position,

He did not attempt to make any public addition.

Pouring his entire heart, and every ounce of his soul,

Into the attainment of his one (and only) lifelong goal.

Willing to pay and suffer every single solitary toll;

While in silent solitude, his momentum continued to roll.

He was insulted daily for his foolishly followed aspiration,

Ridiculed relentlessly for his hopeful sense of dedication,

Labeled with many brands for his steadfast concentration;

But, against the endless enmity, still chasing artistic generation.

Comforted by the knowledge: if he died before the vision was achieved;

In heaven, hell, or nothingness – his spirit would be content and relieved.

He felt that, though success might be an illusion which lied and deceived;

Throughout all the doubt and slander, he always attempted and believed.

Composed By: A. D.

A Futile Lament for Relief

A man stood on the subway platform, incessantly calling out;

As the trains were steadily passing, and commuter’s amassing.

Destitute, ignored, and socially deplored, he continued to shout.

His eyes were filled with a strange sort of desperation;

From his lips cries spilled, like the liquids of perspiration.

The repetitive echoes, emanated from his continuous calls;

Reverberating like an orchestras performance, on concert halls.

Deep in his Flesh, he knew each of the passerby’s could hear;

And in his Heart – pain, for none would lend a compassionate ear.

Their dismissal pierced, his Skin and Organ, like a fatal spear.

Finally, a young child and her mother, walked past his incessant pleas;

The young girl`s hair, innocently blowing, in the passing cars breeze.

Time would pause for a moment, as the man and child locked eyes;

His were brown as the earth, and hers were azure as the skies.

The virtuous youth, had yet to become a gadget of humanity;

And saw only a desperate soul, where other`s saw insanity.  

She looked at him with curiosity, and her mind grew very puzzled:

Wondering why no other would assist the man who was troubled?

Why they leered, mocked, and neglected; another who struggled?

So, without a moment of further contemplation,

She decided to help him – no indifferent hesitation.

Knowing (without cognition) that a smile, a wave, and a friendly "hi";

Might be the cure, for the stranger, who seemed to internally die.

The youth tenderly prepared to offer, the injured individual, a friendly wave;

But stayed the salutation at the roaring command, which her callous mother gave.

Her eyes filled with tears; as the next train - took the beaten, conceded man to his grave.

Composed By: A. D.

Hardwood Precepts

Sitting outside, and staring at the vast cloudy firmaments;

The heavens are a pristine mirror of the mental universe -

Cultivating another conception from the vision it presents;

Gestating thought as the pen, upon the page, will traverse.

Eyes move now to the once green leaves,

All which remains is the frames of the trees.

Still firm, are the bark`s skeletal branches;

The twigs remind of annual second chances.

Coursing through the grains of entangled bark,

There is an energy, existence’s invisible spark.

Though empty, the large brown husks appear

There is much life, the chill has yet to shear.

Dying above, underground - their activity, concealed roots doesn`t show –

(And like the first stanza`s immeasurable grey skies

Which also lie within each individual`s set of eyes)  

Despite the cold, all things on this earth continue to develop and grow.

Composed By: A. D.

Temporal Undulations

Silence is the momentarily suspended sound, it`s tones set the mood.

The melody lingers in the midnight atmosphere,

The perception of it, is all the ear can audible hear.

This imagination admires each chord, of the hypnotic music playing;

The pitch and timbre of the instruments, and the vocals inlaying.

Silent purpose, not apprehended, yet to be found – still being pursued.

The passage of silence resonates and rebounds endlessly;

Like the unseen emotion, passing within a new parent`s first kiss,

Or parent`s passing, now unseen – the true emotion within “miss”.

All the while, time flows onward drifting like a stream;

In the stillness, time`s movements can almost be seen.

Time briskly bubbling forward, in swift silence eternally…

…Each moving moment, silent ripples are given birth, in time`s invisible wake;

Each passage of the present, new directions, the newborn streams visibly make.

Sitting here upon the embankment; skipping rocks across the water`s face,

Creating little vibrations (rippling tiny dreams), to which the heart gives chase.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

The Being`s Bloodshed

In the depth of the evening, he continues to duel;

With little communal incentive to use as a fuel.

Consumed by belittlement and helpless gloom;

He remains adherent, fighting forward in his room.

The lieutenant of his armies is, a glorious ironclad volition;

The only hope for victorious dreams, to achieve fruition.

Feeling the faith fading, in the face of impending doom -

Still, he will only stop trying and battling

When the fingers of death, deliver his flesh to his tomb.

The wind blows, the windows are rattling -

The air rakes, it`s cold chill slithers across his spine;

His hand also shakes, his brow is saturated with brine.

His spirit is steady – No, it`s pulsating, aflame with hot blaze.

His heart stands at the ready, thirsty and throbbing to amaze.

His desire marauding, on the page; all enemies it will raze.

He is nodding, applauding the violent rage – as the combatants engage.

His company strikes swiftly, killing in a gory haze and daze.

Blood spills like ink, weapons flourish like pens, each hand motion delivers death -

As the initial prospect shifts, it`s very vicious tide, and switches to it`s inverse side.

Defeated cries flood, as enemies doubt and disdain are slain – taking their final breath.

The individual stands over the cowards and fallen foes;

His troops raise their arms, crimson stains their clothes.

If he cannot defeat himself, then who can oppose?

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Recession of Depression

The poet places all the depression in recession,

And

For a moment – reveals more unseen progression!

So for this silent exaltation

With one last exclamation!

The poet enacts a cancellation

The poet subtracts punctuation

There are times when the obscurity and loneliness

Leave every ounce of the flesh in a state of hopelessness

Yet, each day poetry develops - harmony steadily envelops

In social emptiness the verses find purity and joyfulness

Poetically lighting the (once) impenetrable darkness

With the fire of constantly burning dedication and desire

Every physical aliment is spiritual irrelevant

Every current moment is a destined present

All impurities requiring correction

Are accepted as personal perfection

The many obstacles – which stood in resistance

 Are overcome by the execution of persistence

Logically the poet knows there is no chance that this feeling will last

But if it`s true the past remains the past

And if it`s honest “Alea iacta est”

Then until the next serendipity – may this emotion remain unsurpassed.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

The Unknown

First, he renders supplications to the almighty – the trinity;

He thanks them for blessing his flesh, with the gift of poetry.

He ponders - how many moments to pay respect have been squandered;

While his spirit and flesh, have steadily searched and wantonly wandered.

With that humble homage and those overdue dues paid,

He begins his vocalization – which up till now has been stayed.

Many verses his heart has complied, in the dark of the night -

Yet, how can other`s see beauty, in what he may expose and write;

When all the art is revealed, without the slightest visibility of light.

Anonymity leaves his mind feeling completely compressed;

Obscurity leaves his ability sunken, sullen, and suppressed -

His spirit utterly depressed, and logic totally repressed.

He traveled through New York`s ambiguity and The Wasteland,

Channeling and funneling T.S. Elliot into his moving hand.

He Frost`s all his artistry with layers of interpretation,

Complex in the obvious – senses of signification.

In his dream within in a dream, he could see no foreboding Raven;

Only observing nothingness, only the formless verses - not graven.

The source of his beauty, is not found in his concrete refractions

(Though the course of the rhythm for many, is the initial attraction

The use of internally cast and end-rhyme or repetitive repetition);

But, in the vast variety viewed in his verbal abstractions.

He attained a level of comprehension and an apprehension, though not formally trained;

Despite the lack of collegiate experience, intellectually stimulating movements are framed.

In this state; the adept, astute, artist sat upon his usual stoop -

Infinite possibilities enveloped, and circumscribed his mind in a loop.

“Should the verses contain traces of geometry or astronomy?

Perhaps psychology, philosophy, or theology”?

He settled for a transmutation, a combination – Alchemy.

His hand began to formulate the recipe

(Instructions for his newest generation);

He delineated, under a perfect jet canopy,

The constructions of a metrical creation.

Using his life of silent study, and diligent observation,

As the main ingredient of his versified equation;

He hoped no adolescent adulteration or pointless pollution,

Would be perceived or received in this simple solution.

In his potion, the energy of the terrestrial sphere surges;

There, in his conscious, a celestial burning bush emerges.

Lyrics are Moses, as his thoughts multiply and grow,

There is a silent refrain, saying: “Let my bard`s go”.

The movement of these verses are driven forward without

Any actual life; they are fueled by cold fusion,

The words which a mind disperses - when it`s freezing out

The art of eloquent articulation and diffusion.

The evocative power of all poetic poesy is expansive and empirical,

It`s impossible to measure the provocative potential of the lyrical.

No measure for meter, forget the function of a foot;

These dimensions in our space are now obsolete and kaput.

He re-read between the lines, and looked among the letters;

Wondered if this tincture, would be enough to impress his betters.

He hoped that good taste and tact would be remembered

When this tonic is imbibed, and each flavor dismembered.

Appreciating all beauty which is found, (in non- and) rhythmic sound

Of the other poets who inspire and astound, as their lyrics compound.

The creation of each of his poems, openly conceals his life`s objective;

His purpose in the lines, which are subject to each person’s perspective.  

They say the ends justify the means, all love he must send

To poetry, which is all which gives his life meaning in the end.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

An Execution on a Desktop

No tears fell, no fears swell, as the condemned took the stage.

The ax rapidly came down, with the silence of a falling feather;

A shrill chill blew through the air, not brought on by the weather.

Blood fell upon the snow, staining the sheet like ink on a page;

Pointless hope ended, as abruptly, as the final line of a bard`s verse

(The rhythm of life, almost perfect, the only mar is: it’s by far too terse).  

No audience, at this point, only the executioner and ax truly care.

A dream, in the consummation of its crucifixion, leaves a nightmare.

Reality – a jest, or a test?

Life – a lucid dream, a whimsical fantasy,

(Or a moment of apparent sensation and brevity)?

Humanity – ingests and infests.

Eternity – some sort of divine idea of levity?

Death – living answers were found, like metaphors clearly explained…

Death – morbid mysteries so profound, those implications – restrained…

Death – The Reality of Life, which is consuming Humanity for all Eternity…

Death – the executioner placed the ax down and laughed at the absurdity.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

An Appetizer of Implication

“Here is some sustenance to sate the appetite

To abate the hunger, while on the next course – you wait.

 The flavor profile has style, it`s crisp and bright;

A sensual aroma rises, detected, perfected on the hot plate”.

The multitude of main dishes are receiving stylistic garnish.

The dishes are decorated with a sort of intellectual flair;

Their silent notes must flawlessly flare, and brilliantly blare.

The dishes resplendence must be lacquered, as in varnish;

To ensure their presentation is revealed without tarnish.

“Can you sense the appetizer`s implication,

The analogy`s comparison and correlation

(Are the metaphors, which were previously wrote,

Too ambiguous, too arcane, - and too remote;

Or are the mental angles, which are supplementary,

Too elementary – the symbolic juxtapositions rudimentary?)”.

“Does the customer prefer Robert Elliot or T.S. Frost? ...

If the label is not definitive or specific (cryptic),

Does the calligraphy become hieroglyphic?

Are the suggestions (other than the conspicuous) too intense?

Does the creator, and artist, no longer have any poetic license?

… If the appropriate arrangement is altered

(If the rigorous regulations are reciprocated);

Is the fundamental, essential, and indispensable lost”?

On the surface, each dish (thus far) has been delivered

With a simple, satisfying, savory taste of symmetry;

A meek, yet meticulous metrical show of geometry.

Beneath the uncomplicated structures - concepts figured…

… Are intricate suggestions, webs variegated in complexity.

The cook has created many dishes well below his capacity -

Hoping that someone might notice, and fathom his (yet revealed) aptitude;

(Hoping to attain exposure, through an accessible composure)

His true artistic character, remained restrained - concealed, hiding it`s amplitude.

Never has he had desires for obscene opulence or complete celebrity –

His only wishes: his dishes were no longer consider works of levity,

And to receive significant approval, as an actual creative entity. 

“Here is an appetizer, created wearily, in silence and obscurity”.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Anti-venom

She had ambled and rambled, through the reverie and the bramble;

Unaware that she gambled, with something deadly in the preamble.

Her imagination was sterilized, after a few days without any poetry;

She was bitten and paralyzed, by the serpent of complacency – totally.

The apparently virulent venom vehemently affects her mentality,

Seemingly contaminating concoction course through her personality…

(The motions of her art, aren`t easy to forget –

The waves of emotions, which flood the sight

The ink like blood – mud, which soils the white;

The rhymes, like snakes, uncoil then recoil – applying a bite

Of unmitigated evocation – somehow, a beneficial sensation)…

Yet, this infection, in the plasma of her imagination;

Is the medication for the asthma of her pen,

The alleviation of the restraint of her spiritual Zen,

(Like Pythagoras) Her summation, her perfection – ten.

This was, the elision of all her metrical stagnation,

The sanitation of all her melodious formulations.

Her Anti-venom.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Quasar Of A Mind

The mind is sent into the universe to drift;

The images it initially receives, and sights it conceives,

Are distorted and contorted by red shift -

Still every conception it perceives, it diligently retrieves…

The ingenuity set out on an intergalactic expedition,

To perform some astrology and cosmology;

(Exploring the extragalactic) with full intention,

To correct the course of the psychology.

It lifted past the troposphere, stratosphere, mesosphere,

Thermosphere, and exosphere – far beyond the atmosphere;

Leaving the local super cluster and the nine planets behind.

The mind would muster all the ambition, in the hopes to find:

Some new intellectual inspiration, and profound luminosity;

On a stargazing migration, travelling with extreme velocity.

The mind traveled at “impossible speed”;

Faster than light, it would somehow exceed.

It was moving so rapidly that constellations, and heavenly bodies fused;

Yet, to decrease the speed of the vision, it would not – it simply refused.

All of a sudden, it saw the flash from a supernova;

The dying star ahead, (instantaneously) became a black hole.

The conscious felt like a sort of universal Casanova,

Penetrating this beautiful rift ahead was its sole and only goal.

The mind didn’t think twice, and was inside,

And on an awesome current it would ride.

The consciousness felt this excursion was orthopraxy,

As the hole lead him to a whole new-found galaxy.

…By mediation, the mind found astronomical focus;

By dedication, it arrived at the galactic locus.

   

In zero gravity, in dark matter, a gaseous nebula appears;

The electromagnetic spectrum shifts, and the red soon clears.

Before the mind, in the seemingly formless cloud;

An indescribable structure - is hidden in the shroud.

The conscious found this distant quasar,

And collected its treasures like a bursar –

Finally, it returned to the corporeal essence,

Where the imagination has achieved quintessence.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Perfect Period on Paper (Triple P)

There will never be another moment in time like this –

This second when two sets of eyeballs became one.

With passing iteration, the last – is more so missed;

Yet, it is cemented in this verse - to never be undone.

Like the way our urban scene appears in the solar glare,

The architecture rising high into empyrean –

Into the firmament, adorned in cerulean.

Each (currently) modern edifice, which is so massive,

Standing like a titan in the elements totally impassive;

The stone slabs and brick, so inattentive, yet so aware.

The mosaic mural of each passing pedestrian and their countenance…

Native and foreigner, each leaving their own impression –

Another succession in the previous others` procession.

Though their current physical likeness may dissolve,

Each cerebral facsimile, nothing can absolve or resolve.

… On the canvas of the landscape, they leave their eternal resonance.

No matter what the prospective possibilities may convey,

No matter what the impending future may reveal or portray;

This soiree, this occurrence, will never be cliché or passé:

The two optics encountering each other, in this poetic display.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Composition Of New York (2013)

This composition is structured using a bards` verbal precision

(While simultaneously subject to both rejection and revision).

The faces pass, as the words artistically pile;

The rhyme is transparent, as glass, so is the style.

The poetry, has been placed into a mental alembic;

Distilling both meter and cadence, until they are rendered perfect.

Each poems` failure or success is never (ever) pyrrhic –

All entries are new opportunities to see what to develop or correct.

Humanity drifts, strolls through this gorgeous modern city;

The metropolis and its allure are not found only in beauty –

This epicenter is precisely like a diamond dug out of earth

(At first glance the element appears covered in soil);

The precious stone has yet to reveal it`s true worth,

Until it is given diligent observation and refining toil…

The eyes must first destroy all the superficial sights

(The concrete buildings, the moving steel, and flashing lights).

The material world, which holds no value, must be shed;

Until the artificial is gone, and only the natural remains.

Then, the true beauty will appear in the eyes (within the head);

The absolute perfections, and gorgeous glimmering stains:

The combination of nationalities, into a new society;

The variation of rationalities, to create one perfect reality.

The growing tress, like the developing people, are different

(Each carrying their own traits and personal characteristic);

And yet, in the physical image (which they will present)

Each reveal their own perfection – pure and intrinsic.

Moving to the face of the sky, which will continuously change

(During its diurnal movements), its clouds and rearrange;

The same way, that at the start of each and every day,

Millions of new appearances (some similar - like the sun) come into view -

Crossing each other’s’ path as each heads their own way,

Creating a blend out of each picturesque, pristine hue:

The shades of dirt, on the face of each buildings` bricks,

The black old bubble gum on the grey concrete – sticks.

Each street lights` tall metallic silver trunk – each column,

The artistic shadows which are cast under the moonlight,

Each dilapidated building (still standing) alone and solemn,

The rays reflected in the mirrored glass (sent by the sunlight),

The loud growling rumble (emanating from a grate) sound,

As commuters are propelled forward – speeding underground,

The scent of different cuisines (which conjoin in the air),

The joy, anger, curiosity, or indifference in a strangers stare,

The destitute vagabond who sulks looking for hope or rest,

The resolute business person giving their profession their best,

Students heading studiously to their different universities,

The ambiance of each street an avenue (and their diversities),

The way each borough represents its own microcosm,

The way each person seems separated by a vast chasm…

(The artist, comparing downtown to an expensive stone

All the visions (on the ground) under Hyperion’s throne)

… And yet, each exists and coexists, in a city which is still in imperfection;

Each object, seeking to detect and erect, their own sense of perfection.

Diamonds hidden among the distractions and muck,

Waiting for someone pluck them (with a little luck).

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Glacial Butt

A cigarette butt is on the concrete – spent;

People step upon the filter, without relent.

The chill of winter is in the October draft,

Howling in the hollow sound reception devices.

Pedestrians are bundled up, against the bitter cold;

Every New Yorker is attempting and fighting, to prevent

Their skin from, becoming akin to the wind – Ariel sent.

The old cigarette is exposed and pregnable -

Like each passing figures`, un-covered, countenance;  

But, despite being trodden, it is stoic in the frigid ambiance.

Two eyes stare at the butt, wonder what is meant

By this vision… Perhaps some abstruse ken is lent?

Observations, into verse, are prepared to graft;

Verbal harmony, which is played, will be inaudible.

Each tercet is slowly drawn together – each splices;

Creating a, rather unexpected, sense of consonance.

In the algid atmosphere – a response, as the poem begins to mold;

The reaction raising, redoubling, the lyrical lines rhythmic resonance.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Under The Weather

In the late morning chill,

The poet surges forward still -

His cold is a test of the will.

Feeling weak, as the body attempts to write;

Forehead is burning and frying the mind,

Insides are turning and tying into a bind,

All while alert and asleep duel each other and fight.

Knowing the creations cannot be allowed to stop,

No matter the state of the mental or physical condition;

He adheres, like a farmer still tending to each crop,

A marriage in sickness and health, traveling toward perdition.

He`s building verses into stanzas – no stopping the developing,

The rhymes in his frozen mind, the rhythm of ice in his veins,

The tundra of dreams (with sleet of imagination) are enveloping;

These actions cannot be confined, to his physical apparatus and brain.

Like a runny faucet - the eyes and nose are dripping;

With each cough, lungs feel as if they`re paper ripping.

Something as simple as end-rhyme becomes a

Rubrics cube - “red/head, blue… what did I say”?

The brain feels totally lost and confused -

The pain is one cost, and it is also fused

With torpor, the total price leaves the flesh abused;

While rest offers a pleasant retreat, there is a problematic confliction -

Which the heart, to the mind, entreats: Isn`t writing asleep a contradiction.

So

He ignores all distractions on this day off;

Including the nose and lungs, which cough.

His flesh is an iron mesh, his bones are tempered steel;

The winds which thresh him, he simply - refuses to feel.

Though the shepherd may have been weakened by a cold;

He still works these words - his flock of sheep

(They represent his verbal herd), and he shall tend to his fold.

His dedication is pouring, waters extremely deep –

Fortitude (to his profession) fill his flesh, his well.

He draws the liquid, from below, bringing it up -

Onto the grassy page it spills, and there it will dwell;

He adamantly refuses not to strengthen and develop.

Remembering a universal truth

Our professional command (rising still – resolute);

Into the heavens (by our will and demand),

Every action must continue to shoot,

And all trials we should weather and withstand.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Death In The Theater

(The man dove into another description…

To the blank sheet – (as always) his life, he gave;

With a feeling the page would become his grave,

Still his hand traced another depiction.)

Starting a new page, revealing a fresh blank stage;

This is where we start the show, under a fluorescent glow.

Each letter plays its part, as we raise the curtains and start:

The setting is a place called New York City

(The time - the director is intentionally forgetting),

As a soul drifts, among the human race –

Inside his mind, he is feeling pretty sh*tty.

He is consumed by this state of emotion…

His tone emanates with the sadness which escalates,

The cause and reason for this is not the gloomy season.

It`s due to the time which has been lost,

As mortals are moments are too few;

And the past is something we can`t mime,

So each passing second carries a heavy cost.

Like rhymes in a bard`s sad lonely song…

Which are slowly fading from everyone`s sight…

Time can`t be written again, no matter how powerful the pen.

His thought is focused on the prior – the past,

To all the dreams – the prey he never caught.

Failed accomplishments, consume his cheer, like locust;

Lost opportunities, make him shiver, like a sudden icy blast.

His ponderings are unfinished – a sudden interjection -

As the audience watches but the ending is incomplete,

Yet - with a sense of puzzling confusion - they are met.

To the shock of their viewing perception;

From the ceiling the curtains begin to retreat,

The play was perplexing, and the curtains - are set.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Poetic Pebble

The tinctures – the repetitions must be continued,

The old end-rhymes restructured and reused

(All the new formulas and old procedures, must be fused),

Until they achieve sublimation and creation is renewed.

The failed attempts (which frustrate, but) are refractions,

Subtractions, adjusting his path to the zenith – by fractions.

On fifty-third and third, the people of an elevated class;

Smile at each written word, (on looking) as the diligently pass.

Those of the poets’ financial section, nod (with a heartfelt appreciation) at his toil.

They share an unspoken connection – like the rows of the auburn and emerald trees,

Which also strive to grow into perfection - our roots under concrete (unseen in) soil.

They (humanity) all form a collection; leaves, on the brilliant boughs, blowing in the breeze - - -

He is finished with the paid play, so his pen begins the true work.

The conceptions are sail off - far away; to attempt and rework

The sights (the glass and steel city), the eyes believe they perceive.

He fights, and writes whatever he can potentially, poetically conceive.

The pen begins the poetic calcination, while invisible smoke rises

From his secret fires’ generation. With beautiful metaphoric disguises;

The illustrious illumination, still remains almost perfectly concealed.

His words slowly simmer and congeal, until honesty sophistry is revealed;

Mercury gives way to iron (steel), yet he already possess gold. This poet is an adept

(Though he seldom appears as such, using “dumb diction”, around his elders and peers)

A master of combining the abstract, to create a common precept…

He is an embarked captain, on the vast sea of poetry, his versified vessel he steers.

His ship is wisely named: “The Stone”, sailing from home (with steady repetitions)

Each day - resiliently sharpening – honing an error in his precious craft.

The verbal boat, is kept afloat through the paces, it`s purity he conditions.

The imitating commanders, are dammed (to the labyrinth) and quite daft;

To attempt (to replicate and) understand - comprehend the cause of his course

(Unless, they have already ascertained the keys – which unlock the source).

… Still none of these concepts or any comment, remains long in his concerns;

(He left behind regrets) as, without relent, the progress and flame still burns.

Outcast, downcast, he lovingly outpours in torrents of inscribed emotions

(Through his constant abstractions), he continues his personal putrefactions.

The captain unloads his entire creative stores, with his daily written devotions.

He attempts to avoid the tireless distractions (the many modern pollutions,

Those anemic adulterations), which (endlessly) seek to destroy his store of solutions.

During the day (without sextant) and Apollo’s sparrow, he`s directed in both sinew and marrow;

While at night Athena’s owl, provides insight, and allow him to prowl (though devoid of light).

Through understanding, his navigation, has grown;

And now this captain is commanding “The Stone”.

He apprehended the gist – the various elemental compositions;

All vision (which was contained), is no longer shrouded in mist.

He refined his sight (in solace) with precision by (laborious rigorous) revisions;

God made every verse more vehement and vigorous, and strengthened his wrist.

Still, there are those lonely times where;

He sits, among society, with an empty stare

(It may appear, to others, that he located there;

Yet, his mind is lost in heartbreak, beyond compare).

Not over some “love”, which most confuse for lust;

But because his minds’ mettle, life has caused to rust.

And when his spirits sink, all he can think

Is (through the constant mental trials): If only he could, he`d leave the flesh behind;

He would separate the immortal succulent fruit, from the mortal inedible rind.

He sits (All joy he forgets)

Searching for something more (among the ocean of the cosmos) – without relent

Yet

In reality, there is only the moment, and no discovery is more absolutely pure

Then he lets go of regrets

Also, he laughs, remembering that the future he (we) had hoped to find;

Has always been there – latent, misunderstood, and confined in his (our) mind.

- - - Finally, as the poet observes, each set of (apparent) passing eyes;

He sees the universes (behind the differences, the colors - which disguise).

He silently converses with strangers (despite any momentary or monetary disparity),

And in each individual (no matter who they might be) is TRULY a star in our galaxy.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker