The drum plays itself.
It beats a steady cadence and stays in pocket, but no one listens.
The drum plays itself red.
Amid chaos, chaotic, and in silence, serene, it settles into the rhythm of its surroundings.
Aphonic against a world of uncertainty, still, the drum drowns out the noise.
I plug my ears, yet I hear it. Insistent, it taps out its thudding tattoo. Relentless, it reminds, it affirms, it denies…
But, at sunset; as your lips touch my own, the drum skips a beat.