An Orphan

In a haze, where his own fingers are lost
in a white darkness. From the unknown,
as if the broken lyre of Orpheus is sought
for an intermittent melody he disowned.

The piano keys are struck and caressed
by an alabaster hand. A familiar song,
or a mourning pavane? From the silent
quarters where not even ghosts haunt. 

For the romping of a carriage he calls,
from that old cathedral — desolate, alone,
abandoned by the rampage of modernity,
by the verdant sprouts and the rotting bones.

Heartless or heartful? Master or slave —
to the world or to the will; or perhaps beyond
all good and evil? Like that eerie, suave
Idiot who loved and only loved for none
but the lonely heart, and for hearts to save
with all his blood, his sense, his wrongs.

None would hear — when the buried
histories forged his patchy mail, and honed
his eternally crumbling, burning, flurried
rub that is his mellow, sacrificial tone;
like the frame of a cello without her post,
confused, helpless, suffocating for a parlance;
or that silver string on Sor’s guitar —
improper, treacherous, knocked off his balance.

At last the piece must end, for all
the crescendos and fermatas we have yet known.
A lost light must in this world fall,
for the air across the field of tombstones.

Memories encircle as the music plays;
raindrops into the river flows — long
to return, or perhaps only Gaea’s chassés?
Still in a haze, to nowhere will he belong.

Published in: on 25/05/2018 at 12:30 AM  Leave a Comment  

The Plague

My head is heavy; my spine is stiff;
my nauseating vessel quavers atop this cliff,
as if death is the exit of this sleepless dream;
I am ill in this season of blossoms and grief.

We are moths diving into the hell of others,
for the affirmation of life they seem to bring;
to the shapes and moods of order we cling,
for none save our angst of life’s unruly slings.

Yet do you know that in this inviting gathering,
our glasses are of the same poisoned springs?
When the earth has naught save plagued soil,
our ideals shall be buried under our mortal coil.

Under a candle’s lead at this whimpering desk,
a lone soul stares into the unfathomable abyss;
even for Mahler is this too long a rest,
but the self must be forged in an illuminated bliss.

The right is untrue for beauty must be beheld,
yet beauty cannot be in the eyes of the beholder,
for true artistry has through the seasons dwelled,
our hearts for life with our hands grow fonder.

The golden leaves shall my long fermata grace,
just as Euterpe has visited Fryderyk’s court;
yet whose tears would for our shadows trace
— are we not but dreaming in a persistent fall?

Published in: on 21/05/2018 at 9:32 PM  Leave a Comment  

Recurring Reflections

I have a fault —
and the fault is no other than my overarching eyes,
a mortal disposed to reach for the skies,
as eagles looking down upon her own inky sighs.

For immortality I wish not,
for life is otherwise devoid of time and thus beauty,
of music that whispers of what words shy away from,
and the loves that grow for only fading cries.

Yet of death I fear —
no, not if I were a true solipsist or a loveless chest,
but that the thought of death tearing us apart,
more violently than all tragedies of history it crushes my heart.

My limbs are trapped,
in the swamp of the myriads of futures from infinite reflections,
given birth to by simply two embracing mirrors,
with a little light shone from the ghostly remarks.

Yet even this very note —
is a reflection too much, too pompous, a rest too long,
but as all notes do, who am I to judge its right or wrong —
when I am but a helpless pen instinctively swaying along?

Look at all those deeds —
so grand, so timeless, so artful…
Is not a day too short for all your quests and your might?
But look at yourself — to none but the Earth you belong.

Published in: on 21/05/2018 at 12:22 PM  Leave a Comment  

Dream Note No. 9

Not much is left of this fuzzy film,
I had oft dived and explored her realm;
fate has brought your presence to me,
a dark lair where only the blind shall see.

The flowering fields we were to visit,
what thrills would this little trip bring;
for the sweetness of the colours so exquisite,
for the air in which your beauty would swing.

In those little quarters of twisted rooms,
where a month bears five hundred days;
your night gown must be from seraphic looms,
I dared not disturb your sweet slumber with a gaze.

Elegant awakening has your lightsome steps borne,
as you tell me that we’d see on the fifty-fifth;
for the end of three long days — my bourne,
in starless silence I weave with withes.

Yet as my shadow over the table hangs,
you come to rest by my weary form;
upon my silver service you call,
your soft contours ease my fervid storms.

Alas music is not merely silvery sounds,
for time forgives not a fearful heart,
who dares not to traverse the ghostly bounds,
where the world herself has her history marked.

Published in: on 01/05/2018 at 12:30 PM  Leave a Comment