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.