A fairly weird poem, but could you tell me what you think (P.S. only half the poem fit)?

Sienna skies, what’s left for me now?


A broken reverb; a sharp, a flat or two-


Harmonizing in flawless imperfection,


My orchestra of the off-key tempest,


Once an enemy, now a memoir I cannot grasp, or reclaim.


My dusted phonograph sidled away with the waves,


And then,


silence;


A veil the sharpest blade would surely fail to break.


Yet, a thousand pianos out of tune-


Could they not spread deaf resonance ‘round these empty sounds?


No; a flame cannot be born if a fire never was-


Thus with my passive “memories”;


blanks once labeled “feeling” are the clouds through starless nights,


where the strongest telescope struggles to seek a guiding light,


but attempts are for naught.





How can angels fly when their wings have run dry?


Cracked and serrated, patterns distorted and out of synch,


Forget me not pastels have seeped below my all time gray;


They struggle against the fatal current,


Undertone wing beats flutter so faintly,


In the lowest frequency.

A fairly weird poem, but could you tell me what you think (P.S. only half the poem fit)?
I like everything after "and then silence" Before that I think the rythm didn't fit right, or something. But not that bad.


:)
Reply:Excellent metaphor. I love the unique voice and style. Very good write. Thanks for sharing.
Reply:i like it. the first part before "and then silence" is kind of off, buy it's still nice. did u write it? bravo