​A metronome's heart, a steady click,
The quiet before the sudden, lick.

Two wooden souls, a perfect pair,
Waiting to cut through, the heavy air.

​A snare drum yawns, a cymbal gleams,
Waking from quiet, rhythmic dreams.

The kick drum thumps, a primal beat,
A pulse that flows from head to feet.

​The sticks ignite, a blur of flight,
A thousand strokes in fading light.

They dance and blur, a fiery line,
A single drummer, one divine design.

​Broken into, the Styxx are burned to ash,
From the fire that consumed, through rhythmic crash.

A rock and roll storm, a jazz-fueled trance,
Each hit a note, a furious dance.

​The crowd is caught, a living wave,
By every rhythm, that the drummer gave.

They hit the crash, a brilliant flash,
A thunderclap, a sudden splash.

Of sound that soars, then fades to gray,
Till the next rhythm takes, them all away.

Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "