The hours were dreary;
With what things his life came
Where each tick of his hand watch
Brought about the same
Feeling of restlessness bereft of time, yet filled with a sense of the infinite climb
Through the journey of living a life without life;
Yet a life that seemed to the world without strife.
Yes, his fame had been spoken of in papers
Yes, his name had been revered in books
And a lot had been said in admiration
Of the elegant caper inspired by his crotchet and his hooks
But he knew one thing which no one could ever;
Once he filled the ink in his pen.
He knew of this torture that often came to be
Not withstanding the where or the when:
He knew that his prints, they watched him.
They stared back at him as he wrote
He knew that in them came a kind pleasure
Which followed with every note
But instantly, the tunes would turn into din
The good music would worsen the noise within.
The dulcet tones enraged him,
One coming after the next
By this he was made miserable;
the betrayal by his score and his text
But still he loved his music
And he knew that he would write
And he loved the way of the dancers;
The lifting of their bodies lithe, slender and slight
So he possessed the hours of his life;
The rest of the time he had in sight
Time that went too fast by day,
That crawled too slow by night.
These things they up and kept his mind
In a hopeless cage of weird smells and funny lights.
Yet another song he has written
For the dancers to enrapture the audience row
The agony of the pleasure that comes, they could never fathom.
For in their enjoyment, such understanding of theirs could never tow.
He sits at the corridor and he watches.
He takes solace in their stares, their gasps…
In the writing the song for the dance he had done what he knows.
Of the dancers and hours that he passed, he would know how it goes.
And so despite the tumult and the bowling,
The noise he is placed within its throes,
He knows how to have them move slowly,
How to move them in time with the notes. ♦
Author: >> Anakadrian
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