The Song of a Lark

I was resting in the hollow,
at the lively wooden heart
of a throbbing, churning, forest,
an intrinsic form of art.

Soon abounding was a twitter:
a solitary lark.

Quickly joining to the song,
catching like a spark,
was a multitude of chatter
encircling the park,

Soon grew the cacophony, 
the armies of the Lark,
to a higher frequency;
in panic beats the heart.

Shriller grows the multitude.
Doubling in size
and intensity.

Louder, shriller

shriller yet…

I force my thumbs into my ears
to cease the growing sting.
My efforts provide no avail,
into the horde, I scream.

I try to flee, I try to plea;
they sing more forceful still.
My thumbs dig deeper, drawing blood,
within my ears to fill.

My ears are torn and useless;
yet I hear the songbirds still.
No relief is tangible,
until myself, I kill.