Amusia

You see the world in present tense

Every day, every sound, every noise or melody

And the fresh white noise buzzes awash in your ears but you do not grieve

There is no right time for requiem nor would you know if there was

Follow the rabbit, memories of measures down the folds of your mind 

Fleeting notes disappearing by the time you catch up

Some distant dirge deteriorates in the depths, there

Something familiar but unknown from where

Perhaps birdsong, perhaps another, but the synapse does not fire

Beats escape and progressions retrograde

Life sings in a way you cannot follow.