Once upon a time there was a sad song. Its name was Ebony and it was about love and loss, sorrow and pain. Its was the most beautiful song in the world and people came from far and wide to hear its tune.
Sad song was fragile and pure. Like a petal it floated around the room gently entering the audience's ears and kissing their minds, before leaving out their mouths as they sung the song again. One flower spawned a thousand petals and they blanketed the planet in a quilt of sensual melancholy.
The sad song was an autumn leaf. Hollow and cold but resplendent in it's colourful, brittle, death. Far more beautiful than ever it was in life, like an artist’s paintings only appreciated after her passing, their true value erupting like blossom in bloom. Yet it was death that brought it to bare, not love or kindness or truth.
Sad song was stunning and widely appreciated but neither confident or self assured. A flickering flame held aloft it could not burn brightly for long. It should never have been loved by all, just by a few. Its burning light was too fragile to hold up when the winds of change came and a storm of redemption blew. A bony finger of blame was pointed at a songbird who sung the sad song, it could have been any song, any bird.
Now sad song is a memory pruned and remodelled by time. History’s misty fog draws a veil over any indiscretions so that all that’s left is a concise moral tale in an ebony hue.
Sad song was fragile and pure. Like a petal it floated around the room gently entering the audience's ears and kissing their minds, before leaving out their mouths as they sung the song again. One flower spawned a thousand petals and they blanketed the planet in a quilt of sensual melancholy.
The sad song was an autumn leaf. Hollow and cold but resplendent in it's colourful, brittle, death. Far more beautiful than ever it was in life, like an artist’s paintings only appreciated after her passing, their true value erupting like blossom in bloom. Yet it was death that brought it to bare, not love or kindness or truth.
Sad song was stunning and widely appreciated but neither confident or self assured. A flickering flame held aloft it could not burn brightly for long. It should never have been loved by all, just by a few. Its burning light was too fragile to hold up when the winds of change came and a storm of redemption blew. A bony finger of blame was pointed at a songbird who sung the sad song, it could have been any song, any bird.
Now sad song is a memory pruned and remodelled by time. History’s misty fog draws a veil over any indiscretions so that all that’s left is a concise moral tale in an ebony hue.
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