Orchestra of the air

Oh,
Kitharode, Luthier, Psallien-
The involuted air, in which
The pink of autumn has
Fallen in. Each instrument's
Voice cressing through it
The new catastrophe
Of rest, duress, and movement


It was that which the air became
At that moment, and every moment
After. The audience had endured the
Show--
Cortage,
suspense, and the tremendous
Dimeundo of an audience's
dispassionate applause
Solipsist! Solipsist! Yourself the
Locus Solus of what 'solace' is
Cronos, Cronos, faltered wit
That fathered it must have been
Yourself -- and now that time
Has had its time and space
To spin, it's spirals of dim darkness
Within,you do not have to
Be any Shakespeare, any Bard
To catch the drift of it-
Everyman's virility and vinity
Falls to you- specious deity