a shostakovich morning this is
the dew is dripping from a nepenthes
as it holds a cache of unlucky ones
those who fell into the trap
those who could not return
to partake of another mourning
another lamentation of the present age
there will be dark clouds later
shrouding a horizon depleted of light
covering a world that no longer needs it
snares accurate in their marching timbre
loud sharp before the lightning strikes
before the waltz the dance of war
discordance reigns supreme
with its frenzy its mania its desperation
torrents of painful notes fall from the sky
stinging those who try to pass by
pain madness as blood rules with might
the life in a raging river as it washes all away
just another day in this somber play