Frames, for the well with no bottom

And walls slippery as fine cotton

Where sound enters and sinks

The ears, they connect with the inner sphinx

Funnels we cannot do without

A fifth of the circle of senses, they carry clout

Greased by incessant incoming gossip

It slips into the mind, which demands our worship

Sounds, accept a one-way ticket

Reverberating within a pen with a painted picket

Those imaginary boundaries change by the minute

On the wave of the mind, we cannot do without it

We are on the highway from the ears to the mind

At each stop, a portion we rescind

Of our freedom, the ears cannot hear the distant cries

Of the soul, who tires of the mind’s lies