A Capella Confession

It's meant for a musical conception.

Solid smoke and wafting water
Are no different than an aural garter,
Wrapped around the composer's head;
Felt and heard, it's finely stretched
To catch even a whisper's thread.

I smell the music,
See it boil from the bell itself.
I feel it brush against me,
Taste it sweeter than jelly
Made of the rarest berry.

Encapsulated, I am crippled:
My senses have nothing save the music's trickle.