Pack away the sombre guitars; love ne’er plays to the darkness. Orchestras are disbanded and fall, pianos lose black keys and white to the silence of eternity.
White wind is the only cruel sound, brushing off solemn tears, ethereal. Storms of dove’s feathers, tempests of white, break shores, like waves of apocalypse, all warm hope, dying.
Love is embraced by the decrepit as rose-tinted coffins are buried and sink, forgotten, into endless oceans. This serenity shall ne’er more sing into the joyful minds of child or lover.
Hushed hearts, cradled in caverns of red calamity; empty, pitiless nights, the mercenary degeneration of gentle lulls, of the moon, white depths flowing as bright as discordant chaos,
shining on empty black canvass. Sorrow’s diabolic orchestra plays, sweetest harmony of disarray, to an audience of one: your heart, plunged dark to eternal silent symphonies.
The melodies of birds have gone; the only chimes are of hearts breaking, tears falling to dusk and nothing. Calm is the endearment of the soul; Death’s ruin sings sweet rapture,
unspoken words are whispered to air, and lost on the whirlwinds of passion, forgotten and broken, ruptured with tears, as darkened red leaves fall in autumn in soft sounds, crumbling, lifeless, buried.
The mild, spiritless soil, the carpet of brown forests, absorbs the laments
of child and mother, fallen over graves of leaves and decayed trees. Lucifer’s passion remains proud and violent
as your own bleeds out all hope, a faint pattering, screams of sailors on a ship in the eye of the storm, pleading in their final moments of calm. Reticence pierces loving ears as you wait
for your heart, unified in the stars with the gentle trembling of keys, of small strings pulled over fingers, delicate and wondrous; of feathers, making peace with their fates
with treacherous screams of love. Hearts fall apart to dismay and ruin, the razed violins crumble, the drums play their final crash of cymbals. So, cease blowing into cruel gold
trumpets; gold means nowt in the world of withering stillness. Put down the picks and fiddles; no sound can be heard or adored in the land of taciturn strings. Pack up the drums and pianos, switch off
the amplifiers and speakers, tear down acoustic theatres, and pray the seafoam will rise to rape and war all harmony. Love can ne’er more play melodies from the soul’s greatest orchestras,
to adorn the bright stars of souls, the sweet crumbled earth, the tombstone, the flowers and vibrant dawns of peace, the natural world lost in quiet. Diamonds of hopeless silence are all that remain.
Declan Tatam is an eighteen-year-old amateur poet, playwright, and short story writer from Basingstoke, Hampshire, England. He typically writes about gender, race, and belonging, and love, loathing, and loss, and is heavily inspired by both his English and Irish heritage, James Joyce, Jane Austen, his mundane life, and two close friends.