Only to Cry05:31 Apr 30 2011
Times Read: 506
Wind as warm and soft as the early morning sun slips through the cold and misting graveyard, within its gates a youth walks a slow steady pace as his boots fall soundly upon the cobblestone path. Tree's sway and sing into the night ringing out even to the moon that lays low within the sky bright and full of life, its gaze watching over the sleeping and peaceful souls. On any other night the gates are barred to all who would enter, as the dead slumber within their earthen resting places. Sweeping across the dew coated grass the wind bellows catching the youths cloak revealing pale skin and sad eyes, even as the thought of those lost and gone works its way through him mind a smile catches on his lips. Steadily his stroll takes him closer and closer to the heart of the dead's resting place, the soft clicking of metal upon metal echoing from the case held in his left hand. Its short length swallowing the moonlight into its pitch black finish, strange emblems and symbols carved within its surface begin to glow under the soft moonlight. Looming within the edge of his sight are the farthest tombs that spread as if the ocean into the far distance, miles upon miles the graveyard stretches its peaceful and welcoming embrace. Soft Snaps echo into the darkness as the case unfolds, pale hands gently releasing its blood red contents.
Tears gather within the youths eyes as he breaths the first breaths of release and comfort he has known in many years.
Slipping a bow from the case he poetically rosin's its length his eyes following the movement as if nothing else in the world matters to him. Smoothly and slowly spirits rise from the graves, mothers,sisters, daughters, fathers, brothers, and sons their eyes upon the pale youth and his sad features. Sorrow and pain have scared his spirit and as such left him in an unwell condition. Leaning his chin gently upon the violin he plays a slow and gathering melody for which he has no name, no thoughts. It is not memorized, and it does not exist as a written piece. It is his song to those he envies, the peace of death that will not come soon enough though his passion is more then enough to see him through millions of lives, all of them troubled. As the melody grows and swells within the warm yet bitter air, the spirits twist and turn as they bask within the moons gentle gaze. The youth plays for hours still, and only when the sun appears and all the souls have gone, does he pack the violin and silence his sad song, to work his way once more into the world of man, his tears dry up as he faces them.
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