On Beethoven's Tempest

Sail the sonic seas in turbulence,

the great master, the Poseidon of the ear,

throws us down into the tempest,

tiny, and over cast,

possessed of a broken mast,

the walled waves of black,

lit by lightning bolts,

a burning surge, that seldom halts.

Amidst the waters war,

brief calms as good as islands rise,

these frequent fraudulent Atlanti fall,

all to soon, once more under,

drowned by the urgent march of this, a brute incarnate.

Horizon hems,

the squall squawks like the snapping of bones,

sounds once heard only by delicate hydrophones,

birthed tides, that wash up, a grand Sonata.

Once breezed seas, become Alps, Grampians, and Pyrenees,

peaks and troughs that hold us high,

Aloft, a salty plinth of frenzied froth.

Bear in mind,

These are not angered seas,

Just hurried

Rushed

By awesome might pushed,

Destined to stall and pass,

A terrific feat that lies in wait,

In its company, it is the master, it is fate.