-1Wagnerian overtures of Isolde
Germanic whistling
echo's a quiet ciaos, and
Wagner, in his leather
chair

composes. Stiff fingers
flush out; staccato, overture

until it becomes a portrait
of her.

The meaning, is meaningless, No?

Direction is without much centering,
she meanders beatifically
through the sorrow of

violas. flutes. ciaos.

I am left, somewhere in
the corner, of these dark rooms,
to tell her how stunning
the creation is,

although, she does not believe me -
she says: Fool! for fawning lovers
cannot melt the edge of time,

they merely find themselves
sliding along it, like a knife.
Our true faces blurred by
your misrepresentation

of us.
Truth be told, she has no face in the dimness,
just o-shaped lips, long, lingering arms
cascading violently in their search.

Tristan is a bedfellow of night,
he will not come for fear
of cementing himself to this idea,

Yet, Wagner carries on,
the sound of this plight
swells, though all the while
I cannot bring myself to weep.

Milady, I will tell this ghost effeminate
to quiet his devotion for you,

after all, he does not know your face,
therefore, how can he compose
for you?

How can he know the breaking
of the world while Tristan lays
dying?

How can he know she suffers here,
alone in time, melted into perspective,
modernized, guilt-ridden?

An overture in her name,
yet, no certain fate of her own to claim.