And the Music, it Grows

Follow the music, follow the sounds,
Through forest foliage, thick and thin.
Follow it in the woods, down to
A clearing, secluded, unknown.

On a grassy patch, amidst the towering forest,
A boombox sits alone.
Muddy, dazed from rain and storm,
Beat after beat, unaffected.

It plays a simple melody,
Ever-changing, no two sections the same.
But it moves from box to wind,
And the music, it grows.

Entangling in itself, vines intertwined,
Noises overlapping each other,
Noises becoming sound—
And the music, it grows.

It captures the beating wings of distant birds,
Adding them to the symphonies.
Land and sky merging as one,
And the music, it grows.

The wind that whistles through the woods,
The rustling leaves wish to join it.
Held back only by the sheer will of trees,
And the music, it grows.

And when the rain falls, you can truly see it.
The light of song making a rainbow,
Consuming the clearing, reaching for more—
And the music, overgrown.

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