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The plagued soprano, number two, has not the vie of chimes.
When will the mys-ter-ee of chance reveal
to us another glance.
A misdemeanor at best it was to fall upon the greens of gray.
One did not know, nor thrice it felt,
to change the way the hue spit down.
To spin the harness,
around we go, 'til markers make the sky turn blue.
What have the cards got in for me,
or have they gotten dead?
Perhaps the bard knows.
A one, a four, a twenty-seven,
She reads them from the wall.
A socket there, will lie below,
availing to the fall -
of hungry hollows and ripened fruits
but one shall be not be savoured.
Bring forth the march,
two-one-four-seven.
To say this best, comes with a tear,
or be this that which mays?
Parade it on, so thick as lie,
Have you no shame dear sir?
How could it be, from the one to the four of twos
that escape became inevitable and harsh.
Torn usunder now, becomes the night
seeking only which shall break the twine
of disease and sick and suffering,
her heart becomes a paper cup.
Restrict you shall the words of heathens
and bare forth many winters.
'Til death do us never part
from sound mind, to bodiness.
Pour her soul into that which may be drank -
by such those known to kind and curtsey
to all those leaving town.
Bring forth, too, the rains of shadow,
the hearts of many now shone down.
If wishes were to bring the many,
Cast to the winds they would be.
Why not bringeth the dragon,
the one so true, of pale scale, blue eye,
green tongue, and strength.
Pure has no power over her,
She leaves behind what she wish.
For years to come, and they SHALL pass,
One brings the words of truth.
To her I say -
Cast not away the pain of plague,
you minstrel spreading hate.
The rude of you shall blend away,
into the dark of night.
With stones we shall show the
night so true,
the day will never come.
For you.
Forgotten never is to be the way of the story of the harpist.
Though years may swallow soul in hand and bring forth better days,
the ears of many heard true the words the message of the deliverer of peace..
.. Love remedies all the world,
.. in peace.
.. in patience.
.. in hate.
These are the words of the
dying
soprano of Beleau.
May they bring peace to your heart and guidance to your soul.
~*~
Tonight I was in a writing mood but I did not write all that which my mind meant to speak. Instead, I meditated. I left the room of cold and warm and sought a mountain village. I was the messenger. I was her. I was the errant of the soul. Mission was my life and I was to speak to the world of the joys of sorrow and the release of heartly pain through love, honor, and desire. I am humble again now. I am tired again now. I've left my love on the streets of Beleau for the masses to take within.
Royality did not listen.
They tore me down.
They stripped my dignity.
And stole my crown.
Now, that body lies dead upon the very cobblestone which bore it.
~*~
Those interested in hearing more of the Soprano of Beleau, please inform me. I am considering a short story.
Goodnight my darlings.
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