Where once velvet chords would tremor
Like the veils to the feather of a tungsten floor
Breaths of inhalations deep, slowly
Columned their way, unto
The secret side of inner peace
Today, a cold statue divides,
As would the wall if still erect,
Coinciding with the concept of birth and death,
To which delusionary visions have been known to house
I had grown so very fond of sound
It does not surprise me at all
It’s deafening, defining blow….
Like so many curtain calls
Destruction tends to enjoy
It’s bloodied prey.