When I saw Music die.

In tales had I heard that, far on horizon,
you can see Music play on a fortunate day.
So I set out to test serendipity and there was he
but Fortune had just finished running her most callous play.

Blood kept oozing out of his gashes,
he was stabbed in scores.
He kept the tune going uninterrupted,
all the pain in the world wouldn’t stammer his chords.

It wasn’t a song about mercy ,
nor about vindication from I could tell.
hands but strumming the strings vigorously,
a song of grim by a minstrel from hell.

On his strings they were running,
an array of free flowing bright red pearls.
may be the abysmal addition made it more enchanting,
meanwhile, wounds expectorate, blood hurls.

Life was but giving up on him, on knees he fell,
the instrument was struck the last time, giving out a loud thud,
“They cut me for worthless paper, music to them is just sound”
with this he closes eyes and goes into eternal sleep
leaving nothing, just but silence to weep.