Miscellaneous

Grey Requiem

He spoke. He propped himself against a grey tree, among grey skies that stretched beside grey fields to a grey horizon.

Remember when, remember when I promised I'd compose for you? A piece just for you? Grey dawn or grey dusk; whichever way the grey sun moves.

I was frightened. The music stilled and all was chaos. The pen and page would not go. The weight of decadence.

Slowly. Years in inches; one note at a time. Slowly, slowly. It happened.

And now, it's time to finish my promise. I'm going to write the final bar, the final notes, the final cadence. Grey skies and grey fields stretch to a black horizon. A black horizon covered by a white sheet with red stains.

Almost there. We're at the close, the final cadence, the final cadence. The black horizon touches the edges of the red-stained white sheet set upon black fields and black skies where the sun has set and moon has risen or moon has set and sun has risen.

What flees both east and west? The black horizon that ate both sun and moon, sky, fields, and the tree. All but the grey sheet with red stains.

I'm sure only grey eyes could see a grey world, so the black must no longer be of the world. A black sheet with grey stains.

I'm sorry. I'm not quite finished, but it'll have to do. One final black word that I saw with grey eyes on a white sheet with red stains set against a burning horizon that ate the green fields and purple sky where the red sun sat and blue moon rose around a grey tree where I propped my back to face the dying day.

Perfect, I said. Make it perfect.