The occasional murmur
made in a small room
is muffled and softened
by a carpet of Berber.
But the thuds of the bass
and its slam drum companion
persistent unrepentant
negotiated for modicum of volume and vibration
but as yet, not really.
Condition: unchanged
but for her day and nightly chance to answer
my earnest plea for politenment.
What, amid her cacophony of narcissism,
can I listen for within the din?
What might I hear from the soft quiet of my soul
that might identify itself as my enlightenment?
What can I hear beyond the staccato in four/four
persistently pounding through the entirety of my floor/floor
resoundingly backbeating up my skeleton,
that will be the key to unlock the stalemate
which is her desire for freedom of expression
pitted against my need for freedom from compression?
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