Serenity

Written by Joseph Hill

It is the calm after the storm,
And all is raging silence.
The trees shiver and strain,
Tugging rooted compliance.
In vain, birds screech with hollow cries
At the awful dead of sound.
And the sea of grass laps the air,
Hissing through the muddy ground.

There is a man.  Can you hear him?
He is tuning memories.
They flutter within, in mad circles
Of frightful intensities.
It's been so long since he last played
This vicious little lullaby,
And hushed anticipation clutches
Even the breathing of the sky.
Inside, voices rise to a crescendo,
Of cheering, leering cacophony
As he strikes the chords of pain
To release the flow of serenity.
The Butterflies dance to the singing.
Moths, around the flame of his bow.
Round and around, and up and down,
Burnt and cut, but they never go.
Foggy vision blurring.
Sticky and breathless.
Weeping crimson grinning
Beautifully careless.

Soon the strings are tired and worn,
He let's his violin drop beside him.
The bow clatters to the ground
As cold raw eyes, grow tired and dim.
There is a man.  Can you hear him?
He is choking on memory.
It is the calm after the storm,
And all is raging serenity.

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