The Composer

The silver rain falls softly down
Upon the sleepy, quaint, old town;
The blue larks stray
Over the chapel of gray
To the somnolent sea,
So gracefully.

A composer weeps,
With a sole, flickering candle,
And a white carafe of wine,
Upon his grand piano.

As the rustic village sleeps,
Beneath the glittering, adamantine,
Descending glow
Of the lamenting moon,
He weaves his assonant lyrics,
No longer concerned with the logistics.

And in his anhedonia
There can be no boon
As the charwoman walks in,
His melancholia
Tempts him to leave for the colloquial din
Of the corner saloon.

And he wonders why,
With a glass of rye,
His heart is filled with such a sorrowful strain-

Welcome, my brother, poor composer,
To the salvific treasure
Of the poet's pain.