The sky was a lyre;
Pink palate of rose,
Sapphire Melody, and ebony prose.
And I stood there,
Just above the crest,
Witness to this silence,
Mute to the rest.
My hand, arced a pose,
I was holding the time,
And the ghosts of men,
Pale and soft, like fleece of the soul,
Circled me,
Like a silver ringlet,
In a tiara of pain,
Aiming to mime,
My claustrophobic completeness of being,
Rooted to the ground.
Fevered they spoke,
With blood and bones,
Flowers I understood but this I don’t.
So they paved a new path,
And built pillars around,
Walls around my waist,
A dome as a crown,
Had my lips weren’t of marble,
I would have said:
‘ You living are fools,
To pray to one dead,
Go sharpen your tools,
And grow your own bread,
I have my own sadness,
More than you will know,
I am the tallest of all kind,
And yet cannot grow.’
But all they heard, was fury and fife,
So they lined more innocent,
And sharpened their knife.
Neath my I fear,
The world was on fire,
Above me I knew,
The sky was a lyre,
Here life was dyed scarlet,
By men and their woes,
There lay an open canvas;
A pink palate of rose,
And I knew I had fallen,
Broken where I stood above the crest,
An ally of silence,
The same as the rest.
