The Art of the Song Recital

The Art of the Song Recital

It's dying, you say.
Endangered as a rare bird,
Her song, a velvet ribbon
Wound, weeping to its end.

I sit and listen, silent.
Who I am. Who am I?

In truth, you can't handle me,
Delicate, strange.

I am dusk
Mixed with morning air
And ash, rising
From rooftops in rain.

My star risen half way
And dropped this far.
I free-fall in crimson,
Burn out white.

I am buried deep.

Lost music, I drift at ocean floor,
Songstress, streaming red melody
Into rippled chambers
Of undulating light.

Speak to me softly,
Whisper as rain in a wood.
Touch me as snow
Blankets its pearlescent new
Over dull ground.

Tell no one.
I will listen only,
Sing nothing.

--Alicia (2011)