An elaborate composure

If my tragedies were symphonies it would be structured this way.

Memories infused into trinkets of compassion, greeted by the bits and pieces of conflicting moralities, which continuously surface, they speak in symphonies.

Objects without words, drenched in elaborate composure, with room for interpretation. 
A mere mirage for those who wonder. 
Solemn and enchanting; graceful but static. 
The conductor compels his orchestra to play on.
Upon the second movement; the scherzo; the sonata makes it's way. 
Barricaded into melancholy, the grand finale.