Music of the grave
A piano, black as the oozing cyanide dripping from your heart.
The Music of the grave plays a symphony of high pitched screams from Hell.
Yes. The screams of they who were tortured for no crime but for just being.
These screams float beyond the trees,
Beyond the cloudy transparent rings of Saturn and
Beyond the boundaries breaking,
Them who longed for escape,
Dull gray soup to spicy chicken curried roti.

The bloodshot eyes, of a God who mourns,
Dribbles gaseous sparks of light down over rising towers of dark clouds.
They smile,
Even laugh with wide mouths filled with jagged teeth.
They say,
“We have taken their lives
The world is devenomed
We shall build hives
To see that the Queen Bee
Of the disinfected is satisfied”

The violin bow travels along the length of the violin,
It creates a story with its mournful, melancholy
Rosined string, sticky fingers glued to the instrument the liquid has dripped and stuck,
Horsehair collision.
Each slow stroke from this violin, a sad lonely death.
Each deadly drainage of faith
The contract of Hell and Heaven.

Staccato ticks,
Heightening rambunctious activity,
A few moments of normalcy.

The sharp
Bright, white, light
So pungent; all visual ability vanishes in a hazy maze of quick pants.
This must have been death. That millisecond previous to the last intake of breath.
Is it the right to kill because
They have taken the unknown permission, not given, humorously preaching of a “beautiful reason of living.”