Is it a sturdy cacophony replete with waving baton, or a measured gravitational series of waves that roll ceaselessly over my senses, caressing the very depths of my being? Either or, it makes no difference, it is anxiously perceived.
In my minds eye I imagine a subtle smile detected, with long flowing
hair flung opulently as if to obscure my concentrated view, but not in a
direct line of flight to the ensemble, but rather a subtle diversion
reaching from within the orchestra's core competency, softly mixing
harmonic elegy to show an ardor flirtingly revealed.
A temporal dilemma arises, hitherto redacted prose replete with
singularly intimate imbalance replenishes softly my consummate repose.
Already scribed with abundance, the text remains. Hearing quiet sounds,
the concert continues, no need to amplify, my conscience returns in
The love story is still building, ever longing, building, longing the
way it was intended in the opera, the way it has always been. Is it a
splendid tragedy? No, it's ever my immortal hearing of a beautiful love
told in music which never fails to send shivers through my soul