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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2DCMV7Q065w&ab_channel=RobinFoster-Topic

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They are pieces of art, art

Befit

With visions, with pseudo-iconography

Engrained, smells

Interwoven and sensations instilled

Into the mind’s eye of their creators.

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Somebody sat in a studio to produce that;

Somebody delicately touched the keys

Of a keyboard - in the slow, ritualistic manner

That one does, when they’re trying to speak without words,

When they're trying to solve a puzzle, a riddle, 

Without turning the dials of the machine.

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Somebody went to great lengths to master that, to edit the draft

With a methodical meticulousness

That one might compare to the carefully, illustrated texts

Produced once, calligraphed, in the now archaic

Monastic orders of what once had been called

The dark to middle ages.

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Somebody chose strings, tintinnabulation,

To be rendered against the notes, the bells. 

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Somebody sought to capture that,

To reduce it down, as a chemist might,

Into its rawest, simplest form -

Into a petri dish, with separated cadmium

Demarcated into its three

Prime, and most vibrant allocations of color.

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Somebody sought to understand it, so deeply,

That they might convey its happening with a piano,

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With a paintbrush,

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With a pen.

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Art, music, words,

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Ideas …

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They are supposed to be powerful things -

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Which is why it is such an immaculate shame

When they prove themselves to be insufferably less.

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