Symphonic Torture

That sweet clarion call,
bellowing, wailing through the night air,
pierces the sky and calls the clouds
as a kettledrum's roar crashes overhead.

The tone of the silver trumpet,
shines as brightly as the lightning.
As the dark emptiness I endure revives,
and rapes the melody, breeding a hollow discord.

My heartbeat irregularly pounds within,
as fear tightens the sinews and strangles it.
That silence, that loss of breath
is my never-ending counter melody.

I sway in time to unheard beats,
the forlorn dirge that fuels my fire,
though the very blood in my veins is tinder,
the spark of minor keys lights me ablaze.

I writhe under the contorted maelstrom,
that faint, resonant, chorus lingers,
the dying song slowly ebbing away
as the quiet of the sforzando soul curdles.

That pain in the surreal notes plague me,
but the ears that cannot hear, hiss with the cry
of the sirens employed by the angel of death
coming to collect that corpse of a song.

That which dwells upon the bloodied score,
that waltz of souls,
that dance of death,
a stark contrast of true feeling, the song over.

Reviews

[Robert J. Huntley]

I don't know that this needs to be fixed. It might be that I justed suffered through two really terrible opening bands this weekend but I think you nailed. The only thing might be a bit of an overkill. I think you have the words to hit it square you just might want to thin it down to the strongest. I am also very much against re-writing poetry. If it gets the thoughts out then it works forget anyone who deosn't get it nobody really writes for anyone else.