Letter to a Maestro
color=DarkViolet]It's amazing what you could do,
and it's amazing what you've orchestrated.
I marveled at your intelligence and your deviousness,
and i could not believe that i was once a line or two
in this movement that you've composed.
What you fed was poison, but what you fed was
sweet. Bitter sweet.
I guess the angst lies in the knowledge that it was
wrong,
so wrong yet so right.
The cheesiness of that line made me giddy,
but so did your poison, Maestro.
2 years down the road yet the bitter tang of it remains,
not in my mouth, but in those of the ones I
love;
the other pieces on your board,
the other notes of your composition.
You're like a phantom,
elusive and cloaked but ever there.
Still the conductor, the conductor orchestrating this
movement filled with whirlwind emotions and
driven by lust.
The visage of your mask remains
ever alluring. I remember when there was a time
that I wanted to
tear it off,
scream at your naked face, and
ask you a million questions
I probably
did not want
the answers
to.
But I take a step back.
I take a step back, Maestro,
and I look at what you've done.
I scrutinize your composition and
I pick apart the stitches in your cloak.
I sit by my coffee cup at night and put on your proverbial shoes.
I buried myself deep into the abyss of your psyche.
And when I looked up again, Maestro, your mask was made of
plastic. Clear, transparent
plastic.
What happened to the mystery, Maestro?
What happened to your dominion over your
composition?
This line or two has seen beyond your allure,
only to be greeted by a
flawed,
misconstrued,
dejected
human being.
and it's amazing what you've orchestrated.
I marveled at your intelligence and your deviousness,
and i could not believe that i was once a line or two
in this movement that you've composed.
What you fed was poison, but what you fed was
sweet. Bitter sweet.
I guess the angst lies in the knowledge that it was
wrong,
so wrong yet so right.
The cheesiness of that line made me giddy,
but so did your poison, Maestro.
2 years down the road yet the bitter tang of it remains,
not in my mouth, but in those of the ones I
love;
the other pieces on your board,
the other notes of your composition.
You're like a phantom,
elusive and cloaked but ever there.
Still the conductor, the conductor orchestrating this
movement filled with whirlwind emotions and
driven by lust.
The visage of your mask remains
ever alluring. I remember when there was a time
that I wanted to
tear it off,
scream at your naked face, and
ask you a million questions
I probably
did not want
the answers
to.
But I take a step back.
I take a step back, Maestro,
and I look at what you've done.
I scrutinize your composition and
I pick apart the stitches in your cloak.
I sit by my coffee cup at night and put on your proverbial shoes.
I buried myself deep into the abyss of your psyche.
And when I looked up again, Maestro, your mask was made of
plastic. Clear, transparent
plastic.
What happened to the mystery, Maestro?
What happened to your dominion over your
composition?
This line or two has seen beyond your allure,
only to be greeted by a
flawed,
misconstrued,
dejected
human being.