He picked up his guitar and said, “I want to strum these chords so that they sound like the yawning wings of angels, a pristine sound of strings ushering in the dawn.” When they told him not to use such language, because there was no god, and by extension, neither were there angels, he said in disenchantment, “but there must at least be something, so I will sing with aching harmony ahead against the devil who by his hate has made us slay our fathers, in annihilation of our faith.” They told him again that there had been no devil to begin with, that it all began and ended with him – a self-referential, lonely image as he might see in the haunting feedback of his microphone.
“Then if they are naught, I will send my itinerant voice to both the lowest throbs of the profane and to the highest screech above our heads, until my mutilated voice becomes a lie that fills the hearts of heathens with the grating thrall of demons and the stirring amplitude of saints.”
trochees 