I heard the music once
a decade past:
a hard-paced hysteria

with the darkening of approaching thunder,
the evermore of unceasing clockwork,
the difficult peace of restrained tears.

It had me picture a wake at night,
a burning pyre,
voices in lament.

The music,
the full orchestra,
stopped.

This unfinished silence
led me.
My pyre spat,

the lamenters' voices scorched.
I invented a dead man's face
and saw his living conflict.

The music started,
quick marching grief
into the past.