Chopin's Nocturne opus 9, number 2
A sonorous performance,
The mellow yet melancholic undertones of the masterpiece reverbates through the meadow
From the reflective rubato streaking past the flowerbed,
To the passionate conclusion in a whim, echoing through the garden,
The garden in which a willow rests
Its twigs holding a chalice in its embroidering,
Twines glowing in the shimmering of the silver moon,
Its dark-red fluids seeping from the cracks
It gazes through the dark crevasses for an eternity,
A panorama of planets and stars dwindling to dust as it stirs its nebulas,
Clouding its view as in parallel,
Universes as large as needle tips deteriorate to nothing
There's just naught, nothing, nothingness,
The black mass piercing,
Puncturing the veins of the solemn soul wandering through the canyon
Rubato, stringendo, it walks its own pace and in its solitude
The moonlight its guide, the music its guardian
The darkness its friend
The walls enclosed - an impasse clad in an aural hue descending from the stars
An eternal mirror flowing accross the pond
It took a gander in the deep lagoon and saw the galaxy unfold
Sparkling candenzas fluttering through the sky like fireflies
Ever abiding, expanding galaxies within the grasp of its cortex
The moon flows, the stream flows
The sound of drizzling water emanating from the distance
Timeless endeavour snaps back to reality
I found myself sitting in a dim-lit room, glass in hand
The mellow taste of the blood-red wine
A bouquet of fine grapes with cherry undertones
In the corner rests the mirror I gaze in occasionally
Seconds pass and I looked at an abyss
Minutes pass and I looked at an abyss
A murky shadow lurking
Hours pass and I looked at an abyss
A murky shadow along two red stars
Days pass and I looked at an abyss
A silhouette hued in rubescence grimacing with hollow eyes
Weeks pass and I looked at an abyss
T H E E Y E S W A T C H M E W H E R E V E R I G O
Months pass and I looked at a whole new universe
As I looked at the crevice staring back at me
It smiled and reached its hand
Years pass and I looked at an abyss
The opaque mass piercing my glassy veil as familiarity reminiscences
A supernova of grief and destruction strokes my back, pinching my neck
The willow is dead
The moon is red
A brittle chalice crusted with blood
Then it fell silent and yet the nocturne faintly lingered in my head
As I stared into the mirror for the first time in centuries
It stared back, bearing the most unnerving grimace
Just as I was getting into my car, my breath was ripped from my lungs. On the back window bloody handprints littered the tinted glass, the viscous red slowly sliding down. An unstoppable snowball began building in the pit of my stomach. Looking around in the late, night darkness, I caught eyes with a man who stood a few yards away, in the middle of the road. His eyes were focused on where I sat behind the wheel, the door still open, allowing the chilled breeze to softly touch my skin.
“Rap. Tap. Tap, Little Bird,” his voice sounded like it had traveled via vocal chords through heavy sandpaper. He tilted his head causing messy, black hair to fall over glacier, pinpoint, eyes. A crazed smile spreading across his features. Everything about him screamed psycho.
My heart began to beat faster and faster, like a bird trying to break free from a cage, adrenaline levels rising, as he slowly took a step toward my car. The black trench coat he wore flowing behind him, the crimson covered machete he held rested on his shoulder. Sweat blanketed my skin as I looked for my keys.
“You’re going to sing your song of pain for me while I rip you apart, Bird,” he taunted.
Where are they?! I thought in panic, I paled as it hit me, I forgot to grab them on my way out, ‘RUN!’ my mind screamed.
I sprang out of the car and ran the opposite way. But, froze in shock. Leaning against the rear bumper was the mangled body of a girl. Her eyes had been clawed out causing rivers of red to fall down her pale cheeks from the sockets. Her bottom jaw ripped off, now laying on the asphalt, allowing her bloody tongue to hang like a decoration at a party, only this party was no birthday party, but a murder party, and I was an unwilling guest. A large gash stretched across her stomach, various organs now laid strewn around her, her intestine spilled from the wound like what you would see in a cheap zombie movie, but this was no prop and I wasn’t in a zombie movie. Her limbs bent in directions they shouldn’t bend, causing the the white jagged end of the broken bones to rise from the torn skin like mountains as thick scarlet rivers ran freely from the wounds. Blood seeped from her lifeless form, pooling around her.
A crazed laugh ripped through the air, “Don’t worry, Birdy Bird, you’ll be just like her soon!” he yelled psychotically, running at me full speed.
I sprinted down the road, my heart pounding in my ears. For what felt like days, but could have only been an hour, he chased me, twist after turn, through the dark, empty town. Fire burned in my lungs, my body sent waves of pain each pounding step I took, my mind screamed to stop and catch my breath. Using my last bit of energy, I took off into the upcoming woods that lined the city, taking shelter behind a large trunk of one of the hundreds of trees. Placing my hand over my mouth to silence my breathing, I listened for any sign of the insane man. For about twenty minutes, I listened, hearing nothing. My body relaxed, as I allowed myself to believe I had lost him.
But, as I stepped out from my hiding place, I ran into something, stumbling back with a gasp as the glint of a blade caught my eyes. Slowly looking up, my body shook with fear, my eyes widened in shock as the murderous man towered over me. He wore a smirk of victory, his eyes full of insanity. He let out a demented laugh, grabbing me before I could run.
I've always wanted to fly like Superman
I've always wanted to have the prescence of Batman
I have always wanted to get the girl like Spiderman
I've wanted to be a hero like Captain America
I've always wanted to save somebody
And the world if I could
But I can't
I'm no hero
If every villiain is the hero of his own story
Then what does that make me
Because I see myself as the villian
Surrounded by the heroes
All wearing their masks
I use to wear a mask
I took it off
But I don't look much different
My eyes were stained
Stained with the horrors of life
And look at me now
I am one of those horrors
I'm no hero
But I don't know what I am
Staring into the darkness
I see my darkest fear
What if something were to re-appear
Right before my eyes
I lay paralyzed
Distorted from what is real
The shadows are so near
Creeping in the darkness
Faces can appear
Mental images flashing though my mind
Sending shivers up my spine.
By the time I finished writing 2:47 it was 2:48
Now it is 2:47 and 20 seconds
It took me seven seconds to write that
So it was actually 2:47 and 28 seconds
Of course, the only poem I’ve ever written
That requires me to look at the time
Immediately coincided with me having to reload my page
Because love doesn’t want you to know the time
It wants you to be always a minute behind
Is there an official council or something?
Or at least a handbook?
What do you refer to when
What if that’s not “wrong”? Who is to say?
That 22 and 35 hadn’t switched one day.
Consistency, they will tell you, is key.
See, you can’t just go 21, 35, 23
Since 35 starts with a three
Well, then put threes before twos
And continue along your day as usual.
Individual human perception isn’t exactly wrong,
But what if I am?