In the Wee Small Hours

Gently, your footsteps carry on,
in these wee small hours;
awaiting patiently for a sign of dawn,
a final greeting to yesterday – ‘so long’.

A glass of old whisky, or two,
would all your longings awaken,
in the wee small hours you would,
alone, dreaming as a fool should.

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Published in: on 09/11/2018 at 12:34 AM  Leave a Comment  

Sonata in B-flat minor

Macabre lines to the earth they cling,
as the mourning in soaked mud tread;
tender phrases from the Tuileries springs,
whose tears they lead under a rainbow thread?

For whom the funeral march arose?
Had the deceased for it proposed?
Only the living shall the sorrows bear,
though none knows of a soul most drear.

For whom the funeral march plays?
Was she not his last berceuse?
In time shall all thoughts die and fade,
save a journey from the fated gate.

The pathos of love is death alone,
for love conquers all worldly affairs;
the pathos of death has to love been sewn,
for else would death be in peaceful airs.

Like an old friend she visits again,
bringing the keys to his forgotten notes,
of times under scornful arrows,
of a stubborn youth who embraced his foes.

Has rust or glaze the sword concealed?
A story, story under an old swan quill;
of roses he dreamt in that barren cart,
only famished soil breeds wine and art.

Published in: on 04/11/2018 at 1:09 AM  Leave a Comment  

In F minor

A lady piouretting in her burgundy dress,
makes a charm enticing even the most noble,
for princes and kings are often so slain,
her spell the youthful secrets unravel.

Such is the beauty of an evening song,
as the night courts his elusive lover;
if nightingales were to soar in figures,
beneath glorious ceilings of heroic wrongs.

On his throne the masters live,
tragedies carved onto an unfeeling stone;
red rivers the frigid glass caress,
as the concert begins with an unfamiliar tone.

From the skeletal chandeliers the notes fall,
in eerie screeches of highs and lows,
beyond diminished are the silent calls,
his heartbeat thunders in this lifeless cold.

What fate is darker than the darkest despair?
Where lies this despair no mortal could know,
for the path behind is as the heavens clear,
though the lofty heavens knows no woe.

What chaos within our hearts reside,
when frailties we with frailties deny?
What dread sleeps behind evil’s facade,
if not when our sensibilities die?

Beyond good and evil the statues stand,
but my friend, ‘what a piece of work is man!’
In quavers and doubts the pages turn,
the final cadence shall as dust return.

Recurring memories in Fryderyk’s tales,
are as waves, as life’s beautiful ails;
taking me back to the stormy shore,
the awaking darkness my passions bore.

Published in: on 03/11/2018 at 10:36 PM  Leave a Comment