I.
Alone at the ocean I wonder
Together with solitude I ponder
Contemplate the crescendo, my thoughts would say
It is coming, it will not be at bay.
II.
There is one other next to me
A grim-looking fellow he appears to be.
He glares murderously at me
As I shudder darkly, the stars still sparkling.
III.
Grabbing my shoulders, he cried:
‘Listen, listen!” said he, ‘Do you not hear that sound?’
I looked around, my senses astute.
Was he just mad, or were his own as acute?
IV.
‘No sound,’ said I, looking around.
‘Are you well?’ I dare ask.
Violently he shuddered
‘Sound! Sound!’ cried he, more desperately.
‘Tis the shadows, coming abound!’
V.
Silence was all I could hear
I saw naught what he saw.
Yet the wind was hissing
The current churned intensely
But the crescendo stood still
As if on a motionless mill.
VI.
I turned toward the man.
‘Where is it? Where’s the sound?’
My blood congealed, it became cold
I then saw the shadows, my reflection one of mould.
But then he smiled, and calmly said he:
‘Tis the shadows, The sound is abound.’
VII.
I turned again
The man was not there.
My own shadow stood in his stead.
Grinning toothily, so icily it emerged
Its skin filmy and the scent of blood on its hands.
I turned to grab it, my heart still racing
Yet the Crescendo stood still, not making a sound…
YOU ARE READING
Crescendo
PoetryA man stands alone near an ocean, pondering the deepest recesses of his thoughts. When a man stands next to him and cries of sounds coming toward, what will he do? What will be said?
