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Stolen Passion

Poetry By: Little Blue Bird

This poem is set in the Victorian Era with a dark/supernatural twist to it. I use to love playing my clarinet, but my anxiety and depression took that away from me.

Submitted:Mar 30, 2013    Reads: 104    Comments: 3    Likes: 3   


The cobwebbed concert hall is packed.
Closed behind red blood satin curtains,
Spiders creep under the wooden floors that creek;
The stage lights burning my face.

I am clothed in a ball gown of emerald green,
My hands veiled with black lace.

My clarinet lies on my lap,
Fingers set into polished keys.
I close my eyes,
Ghosts haunt the audience;
I can feel them breathing on my neck.
I snap my vision to the balcony
Where secrets are being shared,
But no spirits.

The maestro raises his baton and conducts.
With every flick of his stick,
A bat presents himself.
The sound of my clarinet fills every crack of the room
With my opening solo;
Notes revolving around me.

A bright clear light shines
From the back of the room.
Dots and lines on the music sheets
Begin to blur.

Vanilla skin on my hands and fingers
Painfully tear apart,
Leaving only bone.

A man cloaked in a black cape
And white mask, snatch me;
A noose now around my neck.
My mouth becomes covered
With is grimy hands.
He drags me to the dungeon,
For now all I have left to love is the Phantom.

~Little Blue Bird~


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