A Nonexisitent War
By: Mendelssohn

Background: I wrote while I was at the Music Festival at Oberlin (which I found highly inspiring). I heard a girl play the Prokofiev Sonata #7 (I believe) very well in a master class. The sonata itself was written to describe one of the World War. The way the music filled the hall had me captivated. This inspired me to write this poem about that feeling. I hope you enjoy it.

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A war
War of booming bombshells,
Offset rhythm
Jagged colors
Whipping winds
Fallen comrades
Booms heard last by dying, groaning soldiers - forgetten in midst of heavy anger and blood.

It is the war that surrounds me
In the hall filled with musical depictions
and people breathing heavily
while I,
a teenager who knows nothing of the true pains of war,
experiences what should not be.

Reality
Fantasy
It is more of reality
for it is too real to be fantasized
too painful and vigorous to dream of.
Yet I sit quietly
in this forlorn hall
seeing only but fingers
flee swiftly from one end to the other.

It is only music that I hear and see
and it shall remain that way
but what is it that makes it come pressing against my face?

The ravenous rage?
The fires of hell?
Yes, indeed it is the fire.
The fire of rage.
No, no, no
It is just music,
Prokofiev's music
of war
of life
of death
of horror
of terror
of a unreal, yet alive percussionistic war.

I will never find out
what it was
that made me find a truer meaning
of life
of what he fealt
and of who he was.

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Ah hah. The end. Not too great, I must admit. Once again, very random and on the spur of the moment. Please do tell me what you think, however. Thank you very much!