11/15/2019
08:59 AM
He was remembered as Edwardthorne Crimsonmeadow
born without an ear for music, to many an eccentric fellow
heart struck with a repressed empathy, an oppressed genius
he went missing one noon, an innocuous day for the less envious
lived a wanton, solitude life; dubbed by few as a man without a heart
he hardly speaks and sneaks, and resented all with a cold thwart
Whene'er tales are told one'd agree: he couldn't hear music
only see strange shades and saturation of an unseen mosaic
to him sounds expel a luminosity that needs no ear for listening
even named each with a language exclusive to his perceiving
and when you ask his moment for a minstrel's performance
he'll shun with all repugnance in an obvious disturbance
Of his parentage no one came to know, or his nuisance to sound
he loved the sunsets, as it did not make any noise for his astound
his loathing for music is unutterable, he would not speak eyes open
a rumor once was told, he tried blinding himself in his downtrodden
as amicable as Ed tried to be, he avoids chatters about his peculiarity
no one knew of what horror came with which they call as monstrosity
Before he vanished from the face of the earth he was last seen
walking in the woods whispering to old willows deep in a ravine
no one noticed til they found his usual viewing spot unattended
as they came to a conclusion, they all went to his lodging puzzled
and what they saw in the empty house would haunt them for years
all those silence and resentment were a ditch against their queers
The rest of the house is nondescript, but in his study is what struck
inside were letters from a woman named Betheléa, covered in muck
he appeared to have tried corresponding, but none of which were sent
the dates were even baffling, they reckoned years were at best spent
the content was all the more worrisome, the woman whom he wrote
developed in her an affection for the lad, as suggested from a note
They had agreed to meet by the riverbank, at a time unquoted
she would release him from his agony, the last letter purported:
"I'll take you to my home, where music has ceased from existence
where colors are singular, and rain doesn't end but doomed in silence
our names are our own, the road is unmeasured, and when we dream
it becomes our tomorrow, and the days are all in feast and gleam."
Madness abound, they say, but the promise of rectification alone
was enough consolation for the poor Ed to venture into the unknown
of what he sees when he hears, and the noises that in his heart reside
caused by the maiden of a foreign abode, none had known and decried
all tidings and bidding and the result of her doing can't be undone
and all that remains of Edwardthorne is with the wind, all but gone
He was remembered as Edwardthorne Crimsonmeadow
if he came back learning what music was, no one came to know
if he stayed in the arms of the woman who whisked him, so be it then
all the songs that were sung in the years passing were of the brethren
to those who knew the tale, he was hurting—a loveless, lone person
and all anguish, pain, and indifference, maketh a man coarsen
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
ПоэзияI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
