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it had been so long so I last wrot I hope this poem merits to be called a grand comeback! |
Oh dear Chritstabelle! My dear Christabelle! Do you heed the final call Of the greatest musician of all ? Away from the common eye hidden, by his lords forsaken, at the summit of the hill , reposes an ancient palace. A palace where I write to you, O dear Christabelle, words darker than the night sky, hopefully engraved in your mind’s eye. Where phantoms of the past silently dwell, nailing their colours to the mast as they quell the path of my quill. Illuminated by silver lights, on my right sides lies a blade, aching to accept and taste the sacrifice willingly paid. A red rose languishes on the stool of the cloisters of shattered glass beyond which the man with no nose awaits his promised mutilated soul. Under the shade of the melting tower, its fragile petals sail through the river of white tears only to fall in the abyss’s haunting gates Hold not my apathy accountable for like thee, I cannot help but gaze. With despair our eyes ablaze. O dear Christabelle! My dear Christabelle! You were there at the beginning and now you will be the first to witness my own undoing. I, Roderick Meister, have amused, with my matchless waltzes and symphonies, the princes of mischief and the kings of treachery who in the time of need gladly turn a deaf ear. Like the golden rays of the mighty sun, my unmistakable tunes engulfed this naïve land , rendering it blind as I cross the immemorial threshold and depart on the river of the damned I have watched as the smoking fragments that was once my throne of glory and fame, forged the trenchant blade, inevitably cleaving my body in twain. Even my faithful companion have chosen to abandon me. Her dissonance mocks me in my sleep, like a fiend haunting my every dream. Under the cloak of the night, I left and walked away until the yowling if wild beasts had silenced the villagers’ snoring parade Neither the rebirth the naked trees pledged nor the shining dawn the stars foretold have I encountered along the wretched road. Instead , a wingless angel , as pure and tender as your heart, was all I have found deep in the vast profound. “Cease his pain! He’s too young to bleed.” Into the wind I screamed , “Leave him in peace and take me for I am tired of scattering roses upon my craft’s grave” He’s harmoniously slumbering on a hardwood bed as we speak, embraced by the warm twinkles of the fatigued holder of flames. He will carry the burden and mantle Back to you, O dear Christabelle while I gaze upon the sun gleaming at the outskirts of the silent forest. All I can do now, as the veil of dark mist begins to unravel, is hope I have not lived in vain and beg the Lord forgiveness and the eternal rest of a saint . A reverend may seek refuge in his Gospel after his temple of faith turns into mere ash. Yet, an artist should not seek comfort knowing he cowardly outlived his fallen art. I fear my time is near. But , please do tell, O dear Christabelle. Tell before my fable ends with a feeble smile. As the grieving mother hears this child howling from afar, do you still hear my old forgotten song? |