Think around the verses sung,
The chorus screams loudest.
Shrill cries of agony that drip,
crimson blood, a wrecked soul,
...
No chance hope resides here.
While we all lay rotting like twigs,
...
I stay murderer to my brothers
So my passion may be exorcised
...
I am originally from a small, scenic village in the Caribbean island of Trinidad. Being surrounded by nature's very best has afforded me the luxury of constant inspiration to write and sketch constantly. Many of my better writings came at a very difficult time when my family migrated to the United States and I left my paradise behind. I write because in it I find meaning to the shapes and sounds of the world. It compliments the essence of life and proclaims it designs. I don't write to understand as much as I do to express and appreciate.)
The Death Of Melody
Think around the verses sung,
The chorus screams loudest.
Shrill cries of agony that drip,
crimson blood, a wrecked soul,
in A minor, tortured lyrics
that dance deadly rituals.
An art that demands a pure slavery,
Remember the compelling whispers,
rhythmic temptations,
a prelude to melodious captivity.
Its tone scrapes the ends of sanity,
desperate to touch the heights of perfection,
Each time stumbling,
Into shadowed shackles, chained to disappointment.
White tears stain the page,
distorting sense, spilling untold secrets,
that bellow from a brazen tongue.
Come now into a quiet embrace,
Forget the existence of love,
Become silence....