The Last Sound

 

Life is a strong composer,

who grates his strings over my head,

in a harmony darkly portending,

something which cannot be discerned.

 

He transposes with deep enigma,

a beautiful sound of lush escape,

that drags me into a full and rotund,

lovely world . . .

filled with an ethereal bliss,

that turns slowly into a crass buzzing.

 

And then He cries out with deep despair-

as His strings develop a fervent bloodied,

passion which builds up to a harsh climax,

carrying me into the plaintive sound-

that has become dead to fragile beauty, life-

that has undefined expanse of nothing,

nothing but a freak buzzing, a sound,

one long, continuous whine-

which invokes within me pure terror

 

  . . .

 

 

I look down, and finger my music box,

which was given to me on my last day of life,

This tiny counterpiece to my heart, filled,

with my memories that rest upon my chest,

singing softly and sweetly to me on the surface . . .

 

But the fact I cannot hear the music,

takes me to an undefined place,

a break from life, signal of doom and death,

a strong, black sound filled with terror, full of guise,

then suddenly the game is up-

and this sound is the last.

               

 

Reviews

[Philip Mwarabu]

The switch from lifes composing to your music box broke the poem just as I was getting excited by the terror - it fizzled out into what seems to be another poem suddenly - enjoyed though!

[Foxemerald]

I'm glad that you enjoyed the piece, and after reading your review I must feel that perhaps I did not define the ending well. Therefore I revised it in an attempt to make it clearer. The intent was not to take away and breach the initial thought, but to expound upon it with a brutal force. This review was constructive in that regard, so thank you.