In the theatre of absurdity where dawn rarely penetrates,
I sit on the edge of my consciousness, awaiting the
nocturnal symphony—a concerto of cataclysms.
My dreams pirouette into dance, spinning tales
of victorious sheep counting in B♭ minor.
What if they composed masterpieces?
Irony, dear friend, is knowing that every serenade
leads to crescendo and cataclysm in equal measure.
The moonlight twinkles, a stagehand with bad
intentions, ready to close the curtain on my
monologue.
Wouldn't that be a plot twist?
So I embrace the chaos, prostrate before
the symphonies that wail in dark colors.
Obsidian trumpets blare their euphoric tunes,
serenading the ironic poet in all of us.
Oh, the melodies we endure!