Even Vivaldi
The Red Priest preached his violin sermon,
His baroque interpretation
Of the seasons’ fickle whims.
I listened closely to the soothing concerti
And came to the conclusion
That though we may have been passionate lovers,
It’s just as sure we never were friends.
Now all my wounds have been healed
In a hardened lump of scar tissue,
And I make no issue with ghosts from the past.
My intentions are wholly benign,
Though my motives are hard to define.
Even Vivaldi could be overly sentimental at times,
Engaged in a contest between harmony and invention,
To fill the night with program music tension.
Copyright © Michael Kalavik | Year Posted 2024
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