I used to dream of singing in harmonics,
Dancing on the impossible edge of emergent frequencies
Only the purest and lightest of minds could attain.
I told myself that the shrill, ear-shattering ring of my own fraying strands
Were the foundations of something greater,
An uneasy grating that would finally break through, suddenly transcend,
Resonating just right into a wave that stands above this earthly mire.
But now, I can't help but hear the twang
Of a clock-spring wound to its limit,
Pinging furiously in an attempt to reach something pure,
Now spiralling and slackening beside itself, uncontrollably,
Coefficients shot all to hell by operating outside its parameters for so long.
The spooling slows, the tick grows ever weaker,
But one doubts, now, that even the most ornate of silver keys
Could resuscitate its gasping chimes,
Let it ring once more the hours with certainty and pride,
Sing once more in perfect time with cesium-133.
Such is the weakness of flesh, in the end--
There's no such thing as a free lunch,
And yet the psyche writes so many checks
That the body can never cash, but will always keep score.