The strings, the horns, the deep in the night drums,
A piece of your soul lost within the darkest thrums
Loves a black Nocturne nocturnus, music in a night
Inspired, evocative, shaped by, given voice, a blight
There is an ab sense that struggles composes a tone,
In a marrow of a song, softens pain, shadows moan,
That rhythm is almost tender holy silent dark in sad
Shout from a rooftop Mountains push us past, a bad
I listen, still, to you, music you leave in the dark red,
Rests a black memory past a night lies dark in a bed.
Apr 3
Apr 3, 2026 at 8:20 AM UTC
The strings, the horns, the deep in the night drums,
A piece of your soul lost within the darkest thrums
Loves a black Nocturne nocturnus, music in a night
Inspired, evocative, shaped by, given voice, a blight
There is an ab sense that struggles composes a tone,
In a marrow of a song, softens pain, shadows moan,
That rhythm is almost tender holy silent dark in sad
Shout from a rooftop Mountains push us past, a bad
I listen, still, to you, music you leave in the dark red,
Rests a black memory past a night lies dark in a bed.
There are times in life, those dark nights of the soul, when even in the mist as the morning breaks, I see and feel the echoes, adumbrations, shadows in the soul of the night that tend to linger in a smoldering, the dreams that fight against nature, bend us in a malcontent, a struggle in the deep of a black within when they whisper just a little longer, come back, let me stay while the dark in us molds us into something new.
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