B allad of a Vir tuoso by Axillez
Dal segno, this burning soul. Sometimes, I wonder how life would be without the beauty of your arias. How rhythms would rest silent if trebles reek of ruptured drums and trumpets. Yet, when music havocs— like a creeping demise, your engulfing tunes have kept me adrift in this sea of discordance. Adagio, these withered strings— intertwined with midnight echoes of ballroom duets. Memories of moonlit waltzes longing to be played by your velvet gloves. Anthems remembered by these fragile tips of mine descending down a callous static, grazing every glissando. For you’re the bane of my agony, the impetus, of my last concerto.
Morendo, my final sonata. Before this melodic heart is swallowed up in dissonance, of harmonic pulses turning sharps into flats— my existence dissolves into voidness like how swans cry ballads in the final note. This sequence of symphony was my everlasting ode to that one aria that strummed the beating of my heartstrings. Coda, I, the virtuoso.
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