Free falling into a chorus of scattered harmonic progressions.
Swimming vertically, so as to avoid counterpoint.
Questioning whether disharmony is any different.
Loathing your movements,
Travelling above, sauntering below,
Never standing conjoined.
Pleasing concords to those who watch, who listen.
As I continually assume,
Provoke,
React,
To your movement.
Drawing from previously established,
Previously notated,
Compositions furnished with familiar harmonic landscapes.
Tired of our functional dissonance,
Frustratingly yawning my way through motifs,
Begging to play the game of modal catch up.
I stop, I powerfully emote the most latent of note.
The distance is chromatic,
And with each interval, its sound evermore beautiful.
Yet, with each root, the note intransigent,
No matter the letter.
Dissonant realities seldom colliding into a viscerally melodic path.
Questioning the possibilities of a consonant resolve,
I tread forward.
Carefully weaving, prepared to untangle if you so will.
Looking to minimize the disturbance for the listener.
In a singular act,
I leap, bound, full of frenzy,
Into an act of statistical destruction.
Climbing the staff, negating the harmonic tensions that have been so very essential to our compositional drama.
Standing horizontally,
I force a common path.