The Lesser Serenade

I was once a baritone,
Timbre like the weight of stone,
And yet in the aching arms of a piano
I could weep and keep the sweetest soprano,
But that was long ago, you see,
When the curtains rose just for me,
And not for choruses, such as now I abide,
Like an tuneless trumpet, by the side.

I have no voice left, so to speak,
Just a twig of pitch, dry and weak,
Which I wring each day, north and south
For a morsel to fill my mortal mouth,
So in glory of the dream slain past
Could I sail again, against this motion vast,
Of arpeggios the world claim true,
That once left my falsetto in ruin and rue.

Author: TheHumanAnvil

I find poetry as a gentle reminder, a medium to relay and dwell upon all things considerate people find inconsiderate. Poetry as an art is akin to a lamp or a magnifying glass. It trails volumes of meaning behind obscure, vague words. I have been writing for a time now, and intend to do so for the time to come. And hopefully, hopefully, hope that one day, someday, a person stumbling across this veil of words, find it alluring enough to shift aside the curtain and peer, into the eyes of the naked truth which sways with the wind of reason. If you have any thoughts, it would be my pleasure to know them, if you don't then it would be a pleasure to not. Be my guest. This feast of words is for you.

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