No string quartet.
No conductor to signal the baton.
No orchestra to anticipate my usual swoon
of randomly plucked staccato
alternating octaves
like a mad man in Vienna.
Alone in the stage,
I would linger
unvigorous in vibrato,
punctuating this sadness
in glissando. A solo part- how I wish
to serenade the muse. Longing
to tell her story in music-
under the sweet delicate pitch
sorrow of Cremona.
The episodes, I have written on
mellow notes, resonant harmony-
bowing cello. Passionately
romancing my fingers to the smoothness
of her nape, the ebony board. While
sitting on a chair, I am a young lover
in blue, embracing memories.
My gentle touch travels
her body, her maple waist
to her bridge, her sensual curves.
Choreographed my movements
spiked to her gravity. My slow breath
became whispers reverberating,
counter-pointing her lucid melody.
I chose to be soft rather than loud,
my cello swooning treble of a tenor-
overwhelmed by a mezzo-soprano.
Quenching beneath this segmented,
disjointed and abruptly shifted
monotony of a lifetime
asking for her forgiveness.
Solitude Amidst the Maddening Crowd
