All I can slip into is sleep.
All I can contemplate is its science.
With my fingertips controlling the volume.
My palms jacket my ears.
They have spoken their words in rhythm.
They have put on a spectacle to aid in my slumber.
Silence congests my senses.
Silence, with the exception of their melodies.
The harmonies metamorphose into a strange poetic utterances.
Unexpectedly taken back with new epiphanies.
Annunciated syllables have new sentiment and essence.
Instruments are no longer an accessory to the lyrics.
Instruments become the right hand man to each expressed verse.
Drunk with concept of utter musical handsomeness.
High with the English language and its capabilities.
Pleasure has left me bewildered, dizzy, light-headed.
Limbs become lethargic to the legato of the piano.
Eyes pirouette to the trunk of my head.
These formulas lay out the science of my sleep.
Contemplation converts to disillusionment.
All I can slip into is this sleep.
All I can manipulate is the conclusions.