The Vacant Theatre


Once upon a human muse,
Whose notes would shame the Siren's song,
Whose strums replaced the air with love,
Once a upon a human muse.

Once upon a human muse,
Who damned the world and found the wood,
Who played his lute but for spiders,
Once upon a human muse.

A castle made of cords and strings,
There he perched with senses bright.
There came a shiver in his web,
A castle made of cords and strings.

A castle made of cords and strings,
There was a murmur in the wind,
There was a hum about his home,
A castle made of cords and strings.

The breeze was speaking something strange,
Tensions in his world were high.
Soft vibrations came in waves,
Surely not the struggling fly.

To him, it was just the wind.

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This Poems Story

Musical art has, in the most recent era, become little more than a commodity-as passionless and generic as its fleeting fans. The sounds that blare from radios are meant to stimulate, rather than stir emotion and grant the listener a momentary frenzy that is easily and commonly confused with gratification.