passion symphony

Draw from your past,
That rich mysterious conglomeration of passions,
A symphony of desire and eroticism,
Of darkness, of night, of the moon and colourless dreams,
But never,
Never let the past dominate, and control,
And become a bitter citrus-lemon flavoured future.

How can I love, how can I find life again?
I still hold on, embracing,
Clinging with bitten finger tips, scarlet with dried blood,
To my own failures, my own telling heart,
Beating, on and on, with quickened blood,
Driving around me like a mad-man, insane,
Deafening my silent dreams.

If a new path is drawn around me, by someone else,
Then you, (my moonlight),
And you, (my breathlessness),
Are always here, haunting me, driving me to insanity,
Fingers down my rain soaked window,
Crying ‘let me in, let me in’, until I am maddened by it,
Driven crazy by it, by the existence of you that exists in me.

‘Let me in, let me in’.

And you are there, in my mind, taking up space,
Get out now!! Haunting me, destroying me,
I need to reclaim my soul, and passion,
To exorcise these ghosts, those that are oblivious incantations,
You have no idea; you did not cause this,
But my insanity, my love, my loss, my passion,
My darkness, my sunlight, and my moonlight- oh but they did!

If I love you still, if I love on to eternity’s beauty,
Then nobody else stands a chance, an opportunity,
To break open this Pandora’s Box, to make space,
And so how can I give room, give air, for the newness of life?
While the hushed casket of my soul is locked up in moonlight,
In memories, in my own past, my own sunset,
No woman stands a chance.

If I love in a time of love regained, love remembered, love forgotten,
Then how can I, tell me, how can I,
Open my heart to a true love future?
But open it I must,
And allow the embalmer of the silent nocturnal night,
To caress these locks,
And open these gates long sealed.

And the music you make, the sounds we create,
You just pull out my soul, my life, my guts, my being,
And string up your bow, and hold up your fiddle, your lyre,
A make me wail and weep with sorrow and pain, keening in wordless nocturnes,
Do you like the sound?
Do you like the fact I am a mere violin string to you?
Do you?

And you play and make me scream as you like.

No!
This symphony of reds, of purples or blacks,
Of wailing strings of crying brass,
Of delicate silvers, of shimmering bells,
Of ghostly harmonics and a voice so beauteous,
Of quiet, so quiet, the apotheosis, must stop, must conclude,
Can you hear it, listen………….

Listen on……..

To the silent mumbling stirring mesmerising sounds……………

Listen…………………………………

This is my passion symphony, of my own creation,
Have you inspired it? Maybe you have,
But I am afraid of emotions, of the swells that dwell here,
Inside,
The rush of my blood, my heart,
And passion now spoke of, but years, oh believe me,
Years too late.

And this is me; this is what I have become, what I have composed,
But no more!
Two themes, both of you, I cannot love while you play on,
You deafen me, and you, my second theme, lost and lamented,
Together you create me, you destroy me, and yes I loved you so much,
But now I want to see, to love again, to feel the simplicity,
Of a new sound, a new string, a new sunrise, crimson, beautiful, dark…..

But of mine, my life, released……

Martin Gaughan
1/6/09