The music played on

Sweetly vocalizing the wonders

That otherwise went unheard

Giving life to this breathing portrait

Of tender moments and sorrow that bled through the air

Of people and machine that were the city’s heart

That weaves through the piercing towers and wire

Blackened and wasted away as time pulls

The strings and let him spin his symphony.

The Maestro played for them all.

“… Though I can assure you there is no reason you should fear me.”

The waves crash

Thundering upon a soft beach

The sunset pooling

Turning to a forest ablaze

With heat and malice

Fire.

The Maestro played their songs

Memories the world held tight

In her dying hands, withered heart

Released within a single note

Messages twisted with time

Change into throbs of meaning

When poured upon the bow and violin.

“Then what are you?”

Strange moments of distraction, fooling with shadow and light

With a pluck of the strings, he matched the rain

And the shadows took him in their dark embrace

As he disappeared from her sight.

“I am but a humble minstrel, playing my songs for those willing to listen.”

And the songs and sounds disappeared with him.