Years of work, years of practice—

all for naught but pain.

Years of looks, years of glances—

all but done in vain.

This is where the rhyming stops,

my friends,

where the skies crash and become empty.

This is where the seas cease, the storm subsides.

This is the ship derelict,

this is the soldier benedict

this, where the path through the clouds

is a road that you can follow

(however dangerously, though

it reminds you of a time when

you were lost)

a road that you can trust.

To rendezvous with a memory

and to seek a star with

a childlike rendition of

your former self.

This is the empty road between

a broken sky—where shadows

flit (and flutter)

(flit) and (flutter)

(flit and) flutter

as if lead butterflies,

with wings made of silver and

dust made of faith—that leads

to the land of flowers

(but all the flowers are made of


which borders that place that's

just beyond your reach—

and will be as stagnant water

that's just resigned

from this tableau vivant

of words and affluent


The homeless find a home

within this empty, broken road

and I'm sure that you will too.

But it's the least I can do to say

I won't—I have a home,

here in your eyes. It is my empty

road, for I will never travel it—

for it is my empty shell

that I've left lying.

I'm lost within those

cerulean eyes—but I'm losing

it in this vast emptiness that will

one day claim us all.


All this put into music,

rather than in words—

and all I have to show is this

Iron Violin.