Air forced into a rhythmic, recognizable funnel,

Concentric circles pulsate to form a clear tunnel,

Pinpointed to a canal, down a pair of tube inserts,

Beating to the percussion of a closed concert.

Bits and pieces bounce from trough to peak,

Reflecting, colliding in a constant flee,

The incessant chain expands as its last feat,

Before filling a couple of orbs with steady heat.

The units expand into a crowd spread thin,

Touching every corner of the area it’s within,

Spiraling into a lambent flow, it wavers upwards and inside,

The process has long been known, it leaves no room to deride.

Fragments float from a solid heap,

Unto a rosy slab with select tastes that keep,

Shifting the mood of the processing center,

For a new, distinct mood, secrete and enter.

With every moment it’s extensively used,

Though it only receives a fifth of its dues,

In one sense, its sense is all that exists,

But take one step back and realize it’s just a fifth of the list.