pale graceful fingers dance slowly
coaxing a song from the ebony instrument.
a sweet sad tune wafts through the air;
a tune of suffering and guilt, sorrow and loss.
the player plays fit for souls to weep.
yet he refuses tears as he plays;
refuses such acknowledgement, such luxury.
his gentle eyes are closed in concentration.
inside he feels so tortured,
but the world has its own troubles...
from his fingertips a cry for help is raised.
the day seems bright and sweet
even as the room is dark and shadowed.
sunlight sees fit to break through the windows
and cast a light on the child that plays, and plays.
it seems he cannot, will not stop.
no one comes by to hear him play.
he wants no one to see him in
his moments of disgrace.
he appears as an angel-child;
surely only such a being should claim
such skill and talent? his music -is- emotion.
the golden locks, curling slightly,
the long lashes...
and when he lifts them, a glimpse of aqua depths...
indeed, an angel-child.
he would protest such a description
accusing himself with hatred ragging his voice
of slaughtering innocents, and dare one
to revoke that claim.
he would say his hands were soaked
with blood. whose blood?
if you asked, he would not answer.
instead within those aqua eyes
a silent sorrow would parry guilt
and no man's blood would rise as tears...
quickly swept away by those small hands...
he plays, and he plays...
coaxing a song from the ebony instrument.
a sweet sad tune wafts through the air;
a tune of suffering and guilt, sorrow and loss.
the player plays fit for souls to weep.
yet he refuses tears as he plays;
refuses such acknowledgement, such luxury.
his gentle eyes are closed in concentration.
inside he feels so tortured,
but the world has its own troubles...
from his fingertips a cry for help is raised.
the day seems bright and sweet
even as the room is dark and shadowed.
sunlight sees fit to break through the windows
and cast a light on the child that plays, and plays.
it seems he cannot, will not stop.
no one comes by to hear him play.
he wants no one to see him in
his moments of disgrace.
he appears as an angel-child;
surely only such a being should claim
such skill and talent? his music -is- emotion.
the golden locks, curling slightly,
the long lashes...
and when he lifts them, a glimpse of aqua depths...
indeed, an angel-child.
he would protest such a description
accusing himself with hatred ragging his voice
of slaughtering innocents, and dare one
to revoke that claim.
he would say his hands were soaked
with blood. whose blood?
if you asked, he would not answer.
instead within those aqua eyes
a silent sorrow would parry guilt
and no man's blood would rise as tears...
quickly swept away by those small hands...
he plays, and he plays...
