The HarpistA Poem by Hayley
It was long ago that the harp met such a hand
So gentle to strum a resonate sound.
His fingers came to life with all seasons abound,
Plucking notes like feathers to each vibrating strand.
He poured his depth and soul into melody
With tears that touched the cheeks of angels above.
His face of lyrical lies weighed on his heavy heart, always begging for love.
(But there was the box of ebony).
It was one show after fresh roses and bouquets,
Patent leather shoes and musty perfumes hanging in the air,
That in his pocket I noticed the shape of a square,
And in that box of ebony he would never say.
He waited for steady applause as the spot was on him.
The harp balanced perfectly on his knee;
Such purity and trickling vows he set free
When he unleashed the freedom hymn.
We soared like doves in open blue sky,
Misted ourselves with icy mountain water to fill
Our seeds of grain in fall by the harvest mill;
He took us where he wanted to fly.
Throughout the audience we held our breath
As we watched him flow anguish into crescendo.
We gasped as beauty shone on the stage-like an angel-aglow,
Though we went higher and higher, we feared falling to our death.
I started to cry as I heard resounding cracks
Of bloody ankles and broken toes.
He never noticed the cries of pain, and continued to compose
Measure on the journey we travelled with him - his last act.
As his last audience we sat victim to his life
On fragile wings upheld by memory alone,
But I was one who noticed the mismatched patches merely sewn
On his elegant suit, held together by anguish and strife.
It was then I understood and startlingly caught his gaze
With one eye that held an overflowing tear as we neared the end
(My belief is he now did something he did not intend),
And he stopped in the middle of a phrase.
He stared a moment longer and breathed a sigh,
Set down his beautiful harp and swiftly brought out a boxed mystery.
He said, “Friends, this is a gift alone and a history."
And then we understood his final goodbye.
With the hand that produced fervid music ablaze,
Fingers that sifted through strings of angel’s hair,
A small velvet box was opened- the inner demon’s lair.
It was in that box of ebony and velvet that took his life in whole;
His candid desire that circled his heart and bound
With rope the final sound of resonance, with
The patches in his suit to intertwine with his soul.
© 2011 Hayley
Shelved in 4 LibrariesAdded on May 27, 2011
Last Updated on July 15, 2011
AboutI'm an undergraduate college student, a sufferer, a realist, and a writer. I'm not on the cafe as much, but I will be as time allows. Side note: I do not rate writing. more..
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