Clashing chords rise and fall;
The breaths of the living,
the silence of the dead.
Harp-strings of hope fall to pieces,
while violent basses thunder in the distance.
The rising of screams disguised as flutes,
the harmony of cries masked as clarinets.
Together, they form the chord of confusion.
Flaming figureheads fall
while the decrescendo leads the moment into a dull sob.
The siren of piccolos weaves in and out of the mayhem.
Rising and falling,
coming and going...
Help never fully coming from the lightness of the harp.
Its strings never to repair.
Suddenly, the violins and cellos burst into full.
Their intensity bringing, not help, only more madness.
They play as the devil would,
with demons on their side.
The harp tries to pluck its cries of hope,
never fully heard.
Basses, flutes, and clarinets erupt,
Intoxicated with the damned.
Clashing, climbing, cancerous, chords.
Discerning death of demons, delighting.
Rising.
RISING!
It is then that all stops,
the last note of its destruction yet to be sung.
The harp tries to play as the curtain falls.
Its strings wholly out of tune,
it sings only one chord,
Chaos.
Bronze trophy winner
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