Song of Storms

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Contributor: BL Blackwood

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Naiad and dryad peer from copse and cove
To see, the west-blown sigh lifted on a breeze,
To greet a flow of ships with down-furled sail,
Blown in from distant foreign lands, across

Amber waves carried, cargo to unload.
Sheets of music spill forth on parchment;
Ebony and ivory hulls expend themselves.
They pour from their holds onto the dry docks.

Admiral Beethoven commands on high
The quiet rumble of an armada spread
Groaning on the waves, a marching army
With boots striking the grey stones of their path.

Covert overture to be overheard,
Unattended as arranged by him to be.
Strings build up on one another, raising,
Rising in anticipation of a third movement,

Climbing, coming, surely rising like a tide.
They bear their sonic burden up the steps
Standing to his innovations, to clash,
To crash down like the roar of ovation.

Ludwig poses with pride atop a mountain.
His limbs flail to mirror his hair unruly;
He casts them off in cardinal directions,
Tossed, arcing across the summer sky.

The composer stops. He breaks in repose.
He pauses to rest, arrests, resting his arms.
They quiver as he quivers, a moment
But a moment, the beat of a wing—

He broods. He gathers composure like static
To himself, tension building, growing, rising
The air thick enough to pour, to drink,
To hold like a bird, a breath in his hand.

The composer rests; he pauses but a moment,
A moment but a breath, and then to resume.
Silence stretches like a hush on a crowd—
Then bolts the knife! It strikes, harsh and hard.

His heart spills its contents like a shattered wineglass.
As Ludwig reels, falling back from his post,
His very breath exhales, in sputters, in fits,
A toccata of spiccato notes shredding the bow.

He folds. His creases increase in measure.
He drops sail, a white flag at half mast,
A tree struck and split down the charred middle,
Severed in two, no direction no form

On the splintered chamber plays in tumult
As sirens sing discord through jagged teeth
And rush up to meet the fallen musicmen,
A jazz-deaf crew in drunken stagger.

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I'm a 23-year old artist, poet, and Science Fiction author. When I'm not writing, reading, or painting, I can be found driving for Uber and Lyft.


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