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Replying to a comment on:
Chord before the crescendo (Free verse) by Caducus Echoes of death briskly marched
her percussion anthem slowed
and I stroked my broken instrument
Like Chopinâs viola.
Echoes of her life stopped
I shook like Harp strings,
Kissed her pursed silent flute
Where breath crafts music no more.
Echoes of a church choir sang
My boxed instrument burned.
A stranger in a dress spoke of you
Then I described you without words,
Through woodwind and echoes
And you returned one last time
In the chord before the crescendo.
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