Mood Music Poem by C Richard Miles

Mood music hums in secret, soulless strains
And thrums her mystic message bland and black
Which courses through her guileless victim’s veins
And leads him down her toneless, tuneless track
To draw him to her murky, murmuring mire.
Though tuneful truth may call to lure him back,
He still strolls on, impelled with deep desire
To seek some message in her tiresome tones
Which burns him badly with infernal fire
And sears itself inside his flesh and bones.
Her symphony’s demanding, doleful drum
Ensnares him, deaf to all his mournful moans
And reels him in compliant, bids him come
And sell his cultured soul at countless cost.
Voice vanishing, his once glib tongue is dumb,
Turned stiff as ice beneath her fulsome frost
So he just joins the common, casual crowd
And spurns to salvage self that he has lost.
He is condemned, defeated, broken, bowed
Beneath cheap, crass, commercialism’s lash
To listen to such sugared syrup loud
And fill his echoing head with humdrum trash
So she has won and blissless boredom reigns
Beneath her soundscape’s shadow, broad and brash.