The Manic Violinist

unsleek hair hanged down her back
soaked in the old wine of a putrid past isolation clutching in her arms,

fire burning ashore her hazel eyes resentment planting kisses on her scarred face, roughly exposing her unhealing wounds

at her feet where peace rested begging for some cents of mercy

in the silent storms of a lonely night
begotten by the ghost hands that fed her

years of drought and poetic holocaust
all tools of art destroyed
massacred poets buried and forgotten
hidden behind the solemn hills
with repressed hatred
and wild cloaking spells
no one caring to lay wreaths
on the cages above these raw objects of truth,
dead though living
as she moved her arm back and forth,
in every tear and note,
every stroke and key, she wrote
onwards to the promised day
when all will rise and reign
under the pointed edges of ominous clouds
with hopes of a brighter future
far away from the uncertain tomorrow
inside echoing voices and sorrow
a blackness painted in her head
harmony has fallen in the street, graven graffiti written on the walls alongside demise and torn posters, depressed souls hanging outside windows,

despair is roaming along the alleys
like a hyena sniffing its prey

in the church with closed doors
beyond the land of shadows,
all who had gathered
marvelled at her brilliance and mastery
though none saw the wolf howling
inside her veins as she played
cruelly eating her energy down
yet passionately feeding their thirst

abandonment wooed from a distance,

hopelessness kept crawling in,

overflowing bins and emptiness

remained isolated

at the far edges

of the broken city,

chaos devoured the entire land

the stem of her presence
sank them into flooding emotions
every nuance of expression
was written across their faces
but one was evident in abundance
an image flashing before their very eyes
clutching at the tree of purity
not the pureness of thought
but the absence of darkness thereof