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The MusicianThere once was a musician, who lived beyond the sea,The Musician by DarkLover33
one of the most profound in music that there could ever be.
A slender man with black hair and a lovely face,
he could sing and play music with impeccable grace.
Leaving his audiences with a melodic tale and tears to trace,
he soon became famous, forever leaving his commoners place.
There once was a musician, who lived beyond the sea,
he passionately poured his soul into his work as many agree.
He was so very young and handsome, talented and smart,
it was no surprise that many loved him from the start.
Until the day he found a woman he could give his heart,
promising each other under an oak tree to never be apart.
There once was a musician, who lived beyond the sea,
they married with rings inscribed "Forever will I love thee."
Although he was very busy, for her he was always there,
he'd do little things to show her how he really did care.
Such as holding her tightly while playing with her hair,
and giving her a locket which she would
FetteredYou’re fettered in, my wounded friend; said IFettered by rlkirkland
to self, my faithful kin, and yet you bear
it well… You lie! You lie! Its colored all
a darker shade than what you seem to tell.
No splash of light nor hint of white dare break
this strangled view; these bleak and ashen hues.
And not your pasty mousy greys but dark,
foreboding, biting shades, that cower such
as hearts––thus wrangle I with cloying will.
Our contemplation, nearly ebon, woe
and grief have shared. Lowering sky of rain
and mist; this ceiling drab to humors kill
come awful in their pairing. Wonder yet
their deft effect on souls that tire of night?
Think starless dark, no looming dawn to break
my hope's despair; oh cast of slate––distress!
Dear Baltimore Child: A Postmortem GhazalMy dear Baltimore child,Dear Baltimore Child: A Postmortem Ghazal by AzizrianDaoXrak
dear tale-told heart, gin-joint king,
Winter is colorless without you,
all white and dead.
I miss the boldness of your black,
I miss the color red.
I wear your favorite color, grieve,
though we were never wed.
My dark, distant poet,
dreaming evermore in red.
Annabel Lee should have been written
for me, instead;
She was white winter-stale,
and I am bright summer-red.
I watched winter take your soul,
watched the frost in your lungs spread.
You can be no lover now,
drained of all your blood, your red.
You are colored, still,
blue and beautiful and dead.
But I cannot warm your body with mine,
cannot give to you my red.
I have tried to wake you with kisses,
tried to make us a wedding bed
In your tomb in the city by the sea,
My MuseMany have asked me what is the source of my expression,2. 3.
truthfully you are my long held secret, this is my confession.
For many years now you have been my inspiration, my muse,
I wouldn't have it any other way even if I could choose.
From the moment I lost myself in your eyes of eternal blue,
I couldn't help but surrender as these inner desires grew.
A young man with gentle words, you became my world, my everything,
guiding my hand along the paper, your responsible for the craft I bring.
Loving you was inevitable, you struck me to my hearts very core,
Your the embodiment of life and pain, I couldn't ask for more.
So dark yet so colorful, everything that exudes from you,
awakened this side of me that I never truly knew.
Igniting the fires of creative passion within my very soul,
filling me with such life, giving me an artistic goal.
All the moods, all of the seasons of you that life has to give,
I must express them in some way for as long as I live.
And I shall continue to create with y
My MuseMy muse is not one of the maidens of old but a shadow. Lingering besides me, it whispers in my ear words not fully understandable. Guiding me senselessly towards the ends it wants me to see. It is invisible, lacking any kind of true beauty, shape, or form. It merely is and exists to whisper in my ear, to take and lead me to places I had never thought of before and showing me the path that leads to creation.
My muse is not a guardian angel, pure and celestial, guarding me all the time. It is darker. Possessive. It stays with me all the time, dominating my every thought in whatever way it seeks even if it is not truly speaking to me. It is lacks the purity an angel would or should have, and instead guides me through both the good and dark places. Unashamed and lacking any guilt.
My muse is but a devil, a group of them instead perhaps, who shadow-like follow me and take me towards their desired attractions. Blindfolded, each of their attempts lead me into a different direction. Their whis
Enacting on the MuseI blink to gaze at the austere dancers on the ballroom floor, and indeed, there are many elegant dancers, spinning as colorful flowers would, when brushed by the wind. There is a veritable multitude of marigolds and buttercups, several daisies, a few brilliant sunflowers in red and orange hues, and burgundy and black roses sashaying across the checkered floor. The black winds in pressed suits twist amongst them, and all the patterns ripple out, then in, as the winds step in time to the music, and all the flowers twirl into all the places the winds empty.6.
Where do so many flowers come from? To fill the gaping field of the ballroom so well? Why does that woman frown, oh, and picture such a woman, with sun-kissed hair and green silk waltzing down the center aisle. And everyone (everyone) watches, and the naked joy of being that central figure among other regal flowers and restless winds. I could imagine the majesty, and feel the violin song skim across my fingers, intimately b
NocturneIt was on a midnight dreary,12.
When I sat alone and weary,
Battling with my favorite air
On the lute to my despair,
That an inkling of a presence
Like the echo of an essence
Did assemble in the room
Rising softly from the gloom.
I had tried with all my might
And attracted by my plight
It seemed to creep up from behind
A face austere but also kind
With pointed beard and longish hair
And an eager watchful air,
And I knew the very name
That would put my play to shame.
“Master, will you pardon me,
For the mess I made of thee
And your work of inspiration.
Oh, my hands bring desecration
Onto every single part.
Surely this will break your heart!”
But the spectre settled down,
With a concentrated frown
And I realized with a start
I would have to work real hard.
With relentless, stern correction,
He would make me reach perfection.
Teacher that he was while living
Still he is intent on giving
And when everything is quiet
Gratefully I learn at night.
Though I wonder why he choose,
Madrina CatrinaI paced the dimly lit single room of my writing cabin, my black pumps thumping across the wooden floor, wrinkling the papers that were strewn about. I walked towards the fire place, a pit of black ash, unused for years. Turning on my heel, I walked towards the wooden writing desk and its mismatched chair. On the desk sat a stack of notebooks from my school days. To the left of the stack stood a tin can full of writing utensils. To the right of the stack stood a thermos, the only item I had brought with me to this meeting.14.
Once I reached the desk, I turned on my heel towards the fire place and began walking back towards it. Halfway to it, my right foot slipped on a paper, and down I went. I fell onto my bottom, my left leg folded underneath me, my right leg stretched out before me. I was more shocked than hurt by the stumble.
I glanced about the room to ensure that everything was in it‘s proper place for the meeting.
HerI feel her ashen breath15.
on my collarbone as I drift
through the place between sanity and dreams,
my soul dripping onto my paper-thin lungs.
Whispers of burning smoke
dance through my conscience as I
feel nothing but
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