Reach through the air and grasp for the wind.
Some find our ways while others all fail.
Wish or contrive, but remember the end,
for then shall we rise, though once we were frail.
Singing the prelude of Vendetta’s last curse,
making the way for the host of content;
we are, with verity, some of the worst:
long to rejoice and yet more so lament.
Bitter in Winter, but melting with Spring.
Likewise our hearts forget for a season.
We are unchosen, we few, those who sing.
Our songs echo passing, forget about reason.
As all things, we fade, but always are mourned.
Though life pass away, still etched in the heart.
We are mere children of the greats long adorned,
our mothers and fathers were divine in their art.
With sorrow, with toil, with heartbreaking pain,
we make things plain if one sees us unfurled.
Some taken by greed, some without names,
we are all fallen, we are lost to the world.
If long to forget, remember us still.
Think of our voices and do what you will.
****
We sing of love, for we are alone.
As one we cry out and our voices are heard.
This dread we all share eats at the bone,
elegiac despondency ever assured.
Tired, we crave something of worth;
hope for those who have naught.
We seek and we find, but discovery births
a false sense of strength, an awareness of thought.
Plaintive forestalling of a shadow’s delight,
perceiving ignorance within the throng,
is only a glimmer of joy in the night,
barely the length of a cognitive song.
Our hearts are entwined with fabric unseen,
but where do we find those lacking hate?
Though myriad strong, we stand alone in between;
forever shall we be doomed to this fate.
Beleaguered by the sensation of pain,
no one will hear our songs from the heart.
Alongside ourselves, without hope of gain,
we labor an end, we ignorant start.
If long to forget, remember us still.
Think of our voices and do what you will.
****
Some claim to be warm, constructed of frost,
sons and daughters of the makers of song.
Arrogance swallows them, they know not of loss,
they are remembered, though they are wrong.
Imposters are wont that they should reign;
pretense gives them the right to the throne,
but only true children inherit the name:
those who are born of flesh, blood, and bone.
We are alive, though never were chosen.
Why must we hide while mockery rules?
We live inside, and yet we are frozen.
The stallion dies while they worship the mule.
Music and sound are power and fame,
held by the fluent of tongue and of pen.
What god gives the chance to come and lay claim
to the modern realm of the popular fen?
Sounding the trumpet, too soon battle starts.
We speak and we hear what others have said.
Some are now lost amid our lonely art,
some here, at least, still romance the dead.
If long to forget, remember us still.
Think of our voices and do what you will.
****
One by one each, as we fall from the sky,
are counted and numbered and few shall remain
to cherish the justice the poet shall try
to convey with the pen, to end the disdain.
If long to forget, remember us still.
Think of our voices and do what you will.
Lost to the world, know most are no more.
Though we are fallen, yet shall we rise.
kings and queens once, but now after the war
we share a plebian banquet at the table of lies.
We are long to remember, though forgotten we seem.
We are born to forever, through sorrow redeem.