FM Tuning (Underscore point Underscore)

In-between-Stations
By: Uriah "The CivILLian" Walters; The Escribe Adventurist

All that could be heard outside was static
The fuzz of phonetic fashion

It was a coveted earmuff
Drowning out each moment of silence we'd got accustomed to
It was a cozy hiding place with tantalizing acoustics
seducing the very drums too
uninspired to play since the heart's beat broke
It was a mind boggling, awe-inspiring
oxymoron of simple complexities
that could arouse the envy of child prodi-geniuses
Because its tunes played notes of rage

It was an honest pastor's sermon detailing
the bruises he inflicted on the flesh that wanted to consume him
like wrung out brains used to wipe down rock-bottom's feeders
It was a filthy rag where all men saw themselves
and what righteousness they thought they had
It was a symphony
Because its tunes played notes of rage

A lapse of irrational wrath fed the orchestra.
Professionalism, Ettiquette, Lowkey,
mattered not to the sounds we heard.
Only the feasting on the disproportions
the imperfections
the woes that stabbed deeper than lingering insecurities

Then the sun rose...