John Tavener killed Mozart.
That prodigy genius child born
to Enlightenment, the candle
that blazes in our hearts and souls
proclaiming in bold musical tones
that our hands and fingers and cells
are born to reach out to the voices
*within* that call in verse, arias
and abstracted notions, pleading
to open the gates, let the flood resuscitate
potential outbursts of Paradise that dwell
and slumber, those latent geniuses, waiting
for the gifted and valiant to come and grasp
the throbbing apple of human achievement.

This is Haven within calling, the voices
we hear in the midst of the sullen and stifling night
when ghosts and ghouls lurk in each tricky
corner- they are psyche specters chain-rattling,
Morse signaling the faint verisimilitude
the truth that must be plucked and uprooted
with vigor and gusto from the murky depths
of the heart, mind, the soul, the body, the steaming
passion for life that ah! so fondly leaps and pirouettes
upon symphonic ball-rooms brimming, swimming
in elevated spirits- their suffering at once externalized
and soothed by the pervasive incantations of Don Giovanni.

So why, oh why Sir Johnnie the saint, you jealous creature
why have you ripped the heart and liver from the living
memory I cherished and treasured beyond all measure
And now, panting and slavering like the beast that you are
you live in perfect contention
having stained mankind's hopes and dreams
with the somber shadows and fiction of Godly monstrosities
saying Mozart's no more than a vessel, a cardboard pizza delivery box
God the Mighty so pleasingly sent down to Hell
Oh, don't mind that genius for he is just a gate or sewer grate
to the twisted annals of sanctity.