Nativity

The static pings and prongs in the space--
creating a blistering hum of bedlam--
noise like an un-radioed station,
or the latest green day album.

Each word in the mess is a weed in the field--
colored in colors not its own.
The mess migrates--in masse
into the new canals grown.

The only force over the raucous hum drum
is a beating drum: doo doom, doo doom.
The space between fills with static,
like death nestling in a tomb.

The static now shows the beauty of the beat.
Its simple line holds me near.
In its grasp I stay for it beats
the beat of time for me to hear.

I stay true to the beat but it not to me.
I am pulled from its holding hug,
by two elder life-sized hands,
towering from above.

The hands do pull and I try to fight--
the latter without success.
The further I am tugged from the beat,
the more the static mess.

The louder the mess the clearer it shows
what sounds it does entail--
a symphony of sorrows, sirens and sin.
And a woman above who yells.

The beating now is a distant fog--
to blurred and faded to see.
Instead of the beat, the static now
Is all there is for me.

The woman who yells takes me 'way with her.
Static is all I hear.
Though I never hear it again I sense,
the beat is always near.