Every battle
turns war.
Like an interlude
rising into chorus.
Swords moving through the silhouettes,
and the vital red
falls
to the floor
Just like that minor chord
that makes the score.
Like a waltz,
the warfare
plays its time.
The quiet rhythm
of lost breath
to the dark and brutal
Ballet of Death.
Guitar strings
dance
on your fingers
and you sing
your weapon of words.
In the sun,
your bright silver
blinds me,
and my demons
finally, bind me
to you
Like a symphony stops
and holds
its audience hostage, too.
Amid the clang of blade and cutlass
I see a bridge that’s glowing and bloodless
Where the violent allegro softens,
an adagio of armistice
takes over.
But the artifice
isn’t over.
When the red
reaches to the sky
and the anger
is set ablaze
The bridge falls back
and fails to hold the stage
It all comes crashing down,
ironic, as the instruments rise
into careless rubato
infuriated
at the bloodshed
orchestrated
by silence.
