The ink that once bled through the yellowing sheets of dying music
now dried across the melodies no more, a bird that used to soar.
For what used to blossom from thy fingertips, thy wings of music-
now laid broken on the ashen floor of poems and burning score,
The corpse that once held thy love.
Proses of roses that once bloomed upon the dimples of thy skin,
wilted in the depths of art's flourishing garden that held thy heart.
Music's wings, feathered with thy love within now rot on thy grey skin-
For what are the wings of art without feathers of love in thy heart?
So there inscribed thy dead dove.
Of poetry's myrtles, gilded with the ink that spilled from thy heart
that sang the burning fires that fuelled the songs of thy heart's lyres,
they lie on the ground once aglow with passion gushing from thy heart,
left with their strings charred with fire, its gleam no longer a lyre.
For what is art without love?
YOU ARE READING
ꨄ 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑ꨄ
PoetryLife and Death; Joy and Sorrow. They're just two wings to the same body.
