Red Etude
The sorrow of the world, it
Plucks
Plucks
Plucks at my sinews.
The strife in the world, it
Tears
Tears
Tears my heart apart.
The weak and little have unheard songs,
The dove no longer has its voice.
The rhythm is broken with howls and jeers.
Chords above necks are in spilled red mist.
Screaming, screaming, forever in your head.
I can feel it - the dying - in my sleep.
The oppression, the worries, the deaths.
The grays a muse paints on an inert horizon,
in abstract emotion.
I can feel it but I am a shell.
Lost.
What can my melodies do?
What good can become without memories?
The arias traverse the skies but they are hollow,
the pirouettes are lifeless like puppetry.
The red that marred the world,
I will clean it with a song,
With dance restored in my shoes.
An ancient chime will redden the wilting sky on that day.
Peace will settle like crotchets on bars,
And it will not pause. Not a quaver off.
And I,
will find my voice back.

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