Listening to pretty Music

A hallowed voice shrivels in tune
as it tries to reflect the mind
that rests within the head
which analyzes the heart
the mouth is speaking for.

My heart is in my head
as my brain within my chest
confuses every emotion that
runs through it.

I don’t know what is a product of what
in whichever order anymore.

At this point, is it even important?

I am not blind.
I just see too much.

I soak in the surrounding atmosphere as a whole.
The pieces connect together
with lines so thin; they seem as one smeared image.
They intrude in on one another.
They can no longer exist without one another at this point.

So this hallowed voice
in quivering verse
echoes through the room.
And this is what is interpreted.

Is it right to blame myself for what is misconstrued?
Am I correct to connect what is so loose and shapeless?

As the notes are pressed
and strummed along with rhythm,
the voice ceases to let the atmosphere
take a mold of its own.
Then it ends.