Final Requim

Oh dear Chritstabelle!
My dear Christabelle!
Do you heed the final call
Of the greatest musician of all ?

Away from the common eye hidden,
by his lords forsaken,
at the summit of the hill ,
reposes an ancient palace.

A palace where I write to you,
O dear Christabelle,
words darker than the night sky,
hopefully engraved in your mind’s eye.
Where phantoms of the past
silently dwell,
nailing their colours to the mast
as they quell the path of my quill.

Illuminated by silver lights,
on my right sides lies a blade,
aching to accept and taste
the sacrifice willingly paid.

A red rose languishes on the stool
of the cloisters of shattered glass
beyond which the man with no nose
awaits his promised mutilated soul.
Under the shade of the melting tower,
its fragile petals sail
through the river of white tears
only to fall in the abyss’s haunting gates

Hold not my apathy accountable
for like thee, I cannot help but gaze.
With despair our eyes ablaze.

O dear Christabelle!
My dear Christabelle!
You were there at the beginning
and now you will be the first
to witness my own undoing.
I, Roderick Meister, have amused,
with my matchless waltzes and symphonies,
the princes of mischief and the kings of treachery
who in the time of need gladly turn a deaf ear.

Like the golden rays of the mighty sun,
my unmistakable tunes engulfed this naïve land ,
rendering it blind as I cross the immemorial threshold
and depart on the river of the damned

I have watched as the smoking fragments
that was once my throne of glory and fame,
forged the trenchant blade,
inevitably cleaving my body in twain.

Even my faithful companion
have chosen to abandon me.
Her dissonance mocks me in my sleep,
like a fiend haunting my every dream.

Under the cloak of the night,
I left and walked away
until the yowling if wild beasts
had silenced the villagers’ snoring parade

Neither the rebirth the naked trees pledged
nor the shining dawn the stars foretold
have I encountered
along the wretched road.


Instead , a wingless angel ,
as pure and tender as your heart,
was all I have found
deep in the vast profound.

“Cease his pain!
He’s too young to bleed.”
Into the wind I screamed ,

“Leave him in peace
and take me
for I am tired of scattering
roses upon my craft’s grave”

He’s harmoniously slumbering
on a hardwood bed as we speak,
embraced by the warm twinkles
of the fatigued holder of flames.

He will carry the burden and mantle
Back to you, O dear Christabelle
while I gaze upon the sun gleaming
at the outskirts of the silent forest.

All I can do now,
as the veil of dark mist begins to unravel,
is hope I have not lived in vain
and beg the Lord forgiveness and the eternal rest of a saint

.
A reverend may seek refuge in his Gospel
after his temple of faith turns into mere ash.
Yet, an artist should not seek comfort
knowing he cowardly outlived his fallen art.

I fear my time is near. But ,
please do tell, O dear Christabelle.
Tell before my fable
ends with a feeble smile.

As the grieving mother hears
this child howling from afar,
do you still hear
my old forgotten song?