Jazz.

 
The warm, liquid gold 
that passed through the 
pipes, to the infinite pool 
of comfort. Droplets of 
intricacies 
came and went. 
 
It lingered not. 
No harmony was 
purely harmonious, nor 
jarring, but its soul waved, 
drifted along the currents 
of the pool of gold. 
 
It flowed. 
The liquid filled up 
the room and caressed 
those ears. It drowned 
you whole. Its, sweet 
savoury notes punctured 
through you. You were no 
longer invincible. 
 
Alas, the liquid drained, 
yet it drained not. 
For the liquid turned 
heads into vessels 
of gold itself. 
 
The song prevails.