My Impromptu

Revolutionary

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At dawn, someday, I saw it out my window. It was a bird; And how it sang and flew…
It always sang major, but recentmost been off-key, even minor…
Any had to think it was misheard for the sun yet shined and the skies were glass
But perhaps there was more? Such gorgeous and beautiful bird with whistle so somber…
Every day its round formed nocturne…
So others I asked, yet they said the bird was fine…
Yet, nay!
The bird was unwell
The bird was not others’
to see; The bird was me…
A bird in such cage! What creature hath done this?
Maybe I’ll find…
Perhaps finding that hole in the cage
I can escape, But does that hole exist to begin with?…
My life an Impromptu, so much like a Fantaisie…
But this Impromptu so minor?
I should not…
If that mockingbird can spread wing and fly into a horizon,
then so can I…
Or maybe not…
Such elegant fingers running to melody of said Impromptu…
is it just mocking such joy?
I should not…
But at last,
The bird must always die…
Maybe today,
Perhaps tommorrow…
But it must cease…
The bird, it sees its days of whimsy,
When it sang such gorgeous Impromptu…
And when it left, my sky clouded.
No longer a glass, And it rained so powerfully,
And my window started to crack…
At once… the bird dies and never sees its light again…
Such somber and melancholy story of such beautiful talented mockingbird…
And last, my window breaks and shatters……

Cascade
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I see every drop fall…
And I wonder, Why Can’t They Rise?
Perhaps, they’ve no way or perhaps no will to do such…
And I wonder…
A flourish of strings struck,
As they rise, then fall…
And they go back to square one…
Why must they fall?
They flourish so nicely up high
Why not stay?
Why fall?
It launders in my mind…
And I come to that simply because some said it was in that form to be,
And no one dared question…
My Impromptu is not even past an exposition,
But it feels so full
So saturated…
I wonder why…
Up
Fall
Up
Fall…
It is almost hypnotic,
Such beautiful melodies but so little soul in its performer…
But a mockingbird and its Impromptu,
It showers in the cascading flourish of water…
And it births again…
The once dead mockingbird sings its Impromptu once more,
And dies…
A soulless flourish can kill of sleep,
as most do…
But a soul heals as this cascade of water…
Falls and Falls…
For centuries and centuries to come…
Even once it ends of its fresh water,
It lives on in legacy and memory of those who live after it…
The Impromptu the mockingbird sings,
It does not end at the mockingbird,
But it lives on until forgotten…
As the cascade flourishes……