The sound so sweat,
the dramatic moment when they start,
is all that I want,
it all that I hear.
Then the chaos appears,
the notes with no origins,
seemingly, randomly-
hurting the peace I wished for.
The dramatic clutter of the orchestra is what makes it worth,
and the yelling of the choir is what makes it the most-
I know what comes next,
the 'big boss',
the big catastrophe,
the big moment of the climax.
When all is done they sing with shallow,
and the strings remain only to wither,
It remains unfinished-
and in its name,
the orchestra will back
in its domain.
-
Author:
Elias (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 13th, 2021 22:00
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: haleyalexis
Offline)
Comments1
You so well describe the primary reason I've always admired the works of Dimitri Shostakovich. But, isn't all music based on the human experience? Thought provoking write. Thank you.
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