The Forgotten Composer

There was once a time for men like me,

 Now I am sitting on a lonely oak bench,

 outside a gothic cathedral,


Among the deadened trees of some forgotten park,

 The wind blows cold, and brings inward the dark,

that sits outside bubbling over my existence,


 Stuck to the pages of an ancient yellowed book,

 whose binding is all but worn away,


The pendulum of the metronome still in my mind sway,

back and forth to beautiful symphonies,

 composed of thought, of a bygone era,


 I was silver then,

 Now I am tarnished beyond rescue,

 Tossed away and discarded into the fond and lost memories of outside,


 I watch red roses shrivel and die,

 their perfume grows stale in my nose,

 the soft delicate flesh is wrinkled and dried,

 frozen by time,


The bell tower chimes no more,

Its ropes rotted into nothing,

With no sense of time,

I sit reading my music,

Without a single instrument


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