The Sliding Scale

Feel the loose string rattle

Without cause or remission

Alone it concedes the difference

Of my own song sung

My own race is run

To its end and to its function

While the drive to believe

Costs more than its shadows exhaust

The mind melds

Between the tuning fork and the chaise proof

Gone are all comparisons

Maybe made up is the chase

Lost in the applause

We stay current

Till the frame of the second verse

Is the thought between the next key

And the sliding scale