A Quiet Ballade
When the music is a runaway horse,
and the frantic pulses run their course,
and the nerves jump out of their holes,
as the frantic fires heat up the coals,
and the music loses its poetic charms,
its easy loping pulse and loving arms,
when the colors fade into a swirling pool,
losing themselves in the unscented cool,
running amuck as the music cries in pain,
to pull back the pulse with a heavy chain,
to ease up the turmoil with a quite ballade,
a resting place for the swiftly frantic gallop,
a loving pulse to bring back the colors,
a sprucing up of the dark and dreary cellars,
a cleansing of the sound in its frantic mind,
a soothing sensation moving down the spine,
a rhapsody of tears in the quiet of the abyss,
a warm feeling begotten by heaven’s kiss,
oh such beauty that comes from the quietude
as a space reserved for a loping interlude.
Oh such sweet music with
such a soothing pace,
we hear thee crying in the song
to curtail the race.
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