Chopin’s Demons, A Sonnet:
Soft keys, bare ice beneath my fingers,
Succumb to a force of nature within,
Beauty sings over the horror that lingers,
And chords give solace to this ignoble sin.
A fallen knave whispers tunes of sorrow,
But all I hear are symphonies, divine,
It’s for this I cannot have tomorrow,
Nor that for which my heart most deeply pines,
Beneath the strings of time, heavens fall
And angels are painted a damning red,
Dust enraptures a once enchanted ball,
The roses wilted, and the dance is dead.
So ends the song of a love not begun,
This is the curse of a long departed Sun.
And They Courageously Died, An Elegy:
Many a day, men stand and fight,
Many a day, they shriek with fright.
But unlike so many that have come before,
They do not run, or fall to the floor;
They keep their faith and shout it proud,
And as they die they sing it loud!
They obey their generals and do not yield;
And courageously die, in Flanders Fields.
Many a day, men lose a friend,
And accept their story is at an end.
For no matter how brave one man may be,
A one who cries, but does not flee,
A one who stays and feels he should,
For in his heart is pure good.
He stands his ground, his heart a shield;
And courageously dies, in Flanders Fields.
Many a day men release their hate,
And like many others meet their fate.
They climb the ladders to know what comes,
As they itch with fear and squeeze their gums.
They run towards a hail of fire,
And fall and trip on manmade wire.
They charge together, cowardice sealed,
And courageously die, in Flanders Fields.
Many a day the numbers decrease,
For every moment, a man deceased.
As Honour and Holy duty conspire,
And the man is marched into the fire.
His last words chosen for the ones that he loves,
As his soul flies away with the wings of a dove’s!
The heroes fought for a country, healed,
And courageously die, in Flanders Fields.
Many a day the hopeful falls,
Many a day his justice stalls.
He wonders why the righteous tease,
To let lions lie amongst the fleas –
His wounds may give him pride and merit,
But his peace requires a broken spirit.
His hopes drip into bloodied river,
Paradise dreams are undelivered:
As kings, before the coffins, kneel,
‘Tis the Honoured Pact, the Holy deal,
That shamefully died, in Flanders Fields.
The Angel:
An angel made
Itself a star
And played the toy
Up from afar
An angel cried
And tears fell
And lit the flames
Way down in Hell
An angel screamed
And shockwaves flew
Right down to earth
For storms to brew
An angel spat
To flood the earth
And rid the world
Of all it’s worth
An angel clapped
To shake the ground
And raise the fires
For those Hell bound
An angel thrust
Its fist upon
A world of crushed
And silenced song
An angel stole
All of the freedom
And masked it over
With holy kingdom
An angel tricked
The subjects massed
So they’d forget
A weathered past
The angel was
Not all it seemed
But morphed itself
To what they dreamed
The angel made
And would not share
A world that is
And was not there.