These are free verse, as well. They are almost like promises or vows. I did use a bit of Andrew Lloyd Webber's Love Never Dies as inspiration/ the theme for the second poem. Find something missing? Is the story not interesting you? Please leave a comment, they are much appreciated!

For You

To stop madness, before it starts

To halt your thoughts, don't let them form

To hide my face, away from yours lovely

It would be worthwhile, for you

To be yours alone, and pure as snow

To change the past, clean the slate

To be the angel, the one you pray for

I would be anything, for you

To gaze, the bright portals

To plan a soft kiss, those delicate lips

To wipe tears away, liquid crystals

I would be caring, for you

To enhance your soul, soar far beyond

To hold your heart, all mine, alone

To adore an angel, unbend her wings

I would love you, for you

Once Upon Another Time

Once upon another time, I would have the courage

To show you how I truly felt

Once upon another time, I would not be afraid

Of your face, so unique, so passionate

Once upon another time, I would be your constant angel

And stay with you for all time

Once upon another time, I would be strong

Strong enough to say yes, and to say no

Once upon another time, I would not cry

But instead absorb light, and glow

Once upon another time, I would live

Unlike anyone ever had.

Once upon another time, I would know what was best

And give all that I could give

Once upon a time, I would be gracious

Enough to deserve you.

As with ever morning, I rise only to greet my organ. I have fallen into a pitiful system of waking, playing away my agony, and letting darkness consume me. Nothing new, to be sure.

I have taken to sketching, upon a few occasions. It is not surprising how I can recount every detail of her face in such precise accuracy, even though her memory is shaded with a hazy mist. My artworks stand upon their easels, staring at me with her face. Yet, no matter how long I labor and toil, no matter how much detail I delve into—I cannot bring Christine to life before me. All of my masterpieces are mirror images. Broken ones.

I wish I could see her sweet, innocent face! Not plagued by gloom, but vibrant and full of zest.

Oh, I am certain that, until my dying day, I will be denied my wish. It is only to be expected of a creature such as me.

Four days later…

The sky remained overcast, but the weather that had been so degrading all week had finally ceased. No rain fell, and the streets vibated with the soft hum of people travelling home, as the late afternoon light caressed a bustling Paris. I donned my silk cloak, wrote a brief letter to Raoul to tell him I was out for a walk in order to clear my head, and hastily made my way through the bustling streets.

I maneuvered through the throngs of people with an anxious feeling rising in the back of my throat. It was excitement, and dread at the same time, one of the most unsettling mixtures.

After about three quarters of an hour—the crowds were so large at the end of the day!—I finally reached my destination. The Paris Opera House.

True, when the depths of the Opera House had been lit aflame by the mob, some of the first floor was affected, but not a great amount. The damage of the lower levels was disregarded, and in about a week and a half the first floor was as good as new. Preparations for the house's next production were sure to be underway, and I planned to stay out of sight, lest someone recognized me.

Indeed, when I entered the Opera House, there were many a ballet and choir girl skipping about, giggling, and many costume makers rushing to and fro with needles and makeup. Nothing seemed to have changed upon the surface, but underneath… that is where I needed to go.

Being sure to hide behind things and people, I made my way toward my old dressing room. Maybe I could find some way down from there.

My pen scratched as I scribbled, for I would not quite call what my hand does, "writing." I was inking some of my ideas for a new opera, comprised of many of the short symphonies I had composed in recent weeks. All about us, of course.

I must remind myself to write a name—a title is an integral part to an opera!

Shifting upon my bench, I thought for a moment. No, I shook my head, there is no way any fantasies of mine would ever be realized. They were too hopeful, too happy. Too unrealistic.