Writing: The Fanatic

by Beauchamp Art

Head slumped for half the year,
Without purpose through the shortest days.
Singing no tune,
But rattling dissonant metallic chimes.
For his dull blades, a cage,
Propped loosely against a blank wall.
He heard the wind and knows its song,
It once was his sweet rhapsody,
But only silence graces his downcast gaze;
Body pal, cold to the touch.

Once he brought comfort,
His cool words much admired.
Yet condemned to muteness for no obvious crime,
But to be and to do that which he aspired,
To fulfil his fate,
And space the suffering from the sulphurous scorching
Of a merciless sun, heir to heaven’s throne.

Not nemesis, but they saw not eye to eye.
So in his quiet prison he patiently perches,
Waiting with subdued eagerness
For the day he may sing again:
Fanatic in his exhalation,
Joyous in his fleeting fulfilment.

Never resenting his time spent dumb,
Like solitude monk, he could contemplate,
Rehearse his solitary song under bated breath.
Anticipating the chorus of his sole choir,
And to raise his head in jubilation once more.
Rapturous in his subtle symphony,
Humming his heartfelt harmony.

But now, he must rest,
Not let rust touch his curved bars,
Longing to be a bard,
And sing calm evermore.

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