Sharp Old Songs

Beneath my wrist there are violin strings
But their music feels lost in the past
What is an artist without her art
Not a gravestone but the shadow it casts

I remember an alter of sharp metal things
I was drawn to, to lessen the pain
Between the black and the red I sought out the end
Yet here today I remain

Many a friend has now returned to the ground
Thoughts silenced in seasons decay
When younger I felt it’s pull more keener than now
Even though now I’m literally rotting away

Those that still feel a pull of the symphony strong
Who find reverie in its familiar tune
In that dream of angst and of gore.... Remember
The crescendo exists, and you'll be hearing it soon