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.

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

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