An angel sewn from minor chords
Whose parchment paper skin is dulled
Beneath the waxy candlelight;
Staccato eyes remember well
The nighttime songs in bass clef ears
That echoed through his catacomb.
His hands of ink and treble lips
Respond with care and gentleness
To music no one else can hear
And build and build and build it up,
His fingers fortes, tongue the theme,
The symphony his blood and bones
And everything that makes him whole –
But when the song crescendos, ends,
The silence fills his woodwind heart.
The phantom figure folds in half
And tears directly down his crease
And with a kiss he starts to fade
Until the darkness, welcome friend,
Embraces him, yet leaves behind
His dearest guise, ceramic white,
To save him from his camouflage.
Yet as the music floats away
And slips into an open light
He watches and, for once, he feels
A happy warmth in flesh of ice.