The cold air holds me now, a thin, vast shroud. Where weight and breath are ghosts of what they were. Watching the shore where life dissolved to cloud, a shadow drifting, utterly austere. The final silence should have been my peace. The quiet closing of the destined door, but in this void, before all movement cease. A fragile music finds me, and I soar.
The chamber music, sharp and clean. A quartet whispering of things long past. A cello’s sorrow, deep, and velvet-green. A spectral echo held and overcast.
In the violin, a haunting, piercing thread unspools. The memories I thought were hushed. The promises I broke, the words unsaid. The tender, frantic moments cruelly crushed. Each note is etched upon
the frozen night. A slow, meticulous, relentless sting. It is the elegy for future light. The only ritual my passing bring.
The harmony is beautiful and dread. Too intimate for crossing such a space. It binds the living heart to one long dead, and casts cold beauty on this vacant place.
They play the minor key of long regret, the fugue of moments that could not align. And though my weary self seeks to forget, The haunting melody remains divine. This is the final score, the chilling guide, that plays my soul across the endless floor. I drift entirely, nowhere left to hide, accompanied by sound, and nothing more.
