Delvings of the Meistro
by J. L. Wilson
Thursday, April 04, 2002
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The orchestra eyes me warily
as I bow to the waiting audience.
They all watch me, looking for a mistake,
a crack in the composure,
but I'll not make one, I'll not miss a beat.
The song replays itself nightly in my mind.
The scream of the train,
the whisper of the push,
the rhythm of blood as it flows to the ground.
All thrust me forward on a wave of emotion
that leaves me struggling for sight of the shore.
I step to the podium,
the epitome of calm,
and hold the wand lightly in my hand.
They watch enraptured
as I lift my hand to the heavens and
How I scorn these dogs lapping at my feet,
hanging on my very movement,
fighting for the scraps I throw down.
She was no different.
A beast crying for it's master,
an imperfect cur put out of it's misery
by a merciful greater power.
With a breath I banish the thoughts,
in command once more,
the image confined to the back of my mind.
Besides, my suitcoat covers the bloodstain quite well.
The hand descends,
the music begins.
Flutes begin to coax out the dawn
and the audience leans back as one.
They know I have the magic.
They know I am the one.
She didn't know, but she knows now.
She hears my wonderful creations unbiased by the flesh.
I have her ear in my pocket.
With a commanding downward wave
I unleash an earthquake,
kettle drums roaring out their rage.
It is really too easy.
I can't help but laugh.
I will play them for the fools they are.
The crescendo builds, hiding my glee
as the violinists scramble to keep with the pace.
What they would do if I showed a sign of weakness
I dare not guess.
I will not falter.
With a grand flourish the song is done.
The crowd roars it's approval,
groveling for more.
I will give you the music for which you yearn.
I will present the greatest piece ever composed.
Gracefully, I set down the wand
and reach for my instrument.
With a nod to the waiting masses
I pause at the moment of truth.
They watch eagerly,
oblivious to the weight of the world.
Slowly the pistol is drawn.
Meticulously it is pointed.
Delicately it is fired.
Thunder fills the void.
Again, this is a work from Spyder's Poetry Empire. I was listening to a classical CD at the time and began thinking how insane the conductor looks, waving his arms frantically while the orchestra studiously ignores him.
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|I've sewn labybugs in pigs overalls;
Is that something akin to the line, "ears in pockets". This poem produces strong reactions, sorry! Liked it! Liked it a 10.