I let the music rage and threaten to shatter glass.
It pours out of rattling speakers stronger
Than an iceberg-deluge, breaking ears, at least.
I let myself rage at the world and my life,
Saying "fuck off" to any problems
That could possibly come to mind.

Music consumes everything.
The movement, the consistency of ear-ringing,
The silence of thought within;
Nothing can distract me.

Then a butterfly lands on my windowsill.
I couldn't begin to guess what kind,
Just that it bears yellow marks and moves.
It stays perched and watches me.

I crank the music, trying not to care.
It doesn't move, just staring inside my room.
I turn on more and more music, different varieties,
But all the "Suteki Da Ne's" and "Desert Rose's"
And "Another Brick In The Wall's" can't drive it away.
Sing of love, death, suicide, dragons and anarchy,
It remains. Do I have to kill it to drive away
The insecurity, the thought, the passion?

"Isn't it wonderful?"
"No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this,"
"All in all, it's just another brick in the wall."

I want the distraction, the resistance to part.
Fly, fly away, back to delirium,
Leave sin and sanctity in another world.

Can't I remain Grendel and
Forget the future, the past, the non-existent present?

The butterfly departs, and the music
Leaves me more than empty.