Rachmaninoff's Second
It is sonorous blue velvet,
a mitten with a thousand invisible fingers.
A concerto for dyslexic mystics.
The composer peeks nervously at the listeners
then rips open his uttering heart
until blood forms love poetry in the air.
We are all haunted by the music.
It cuts through our tangled underbrush
as a machete made of moonlight.
It speaks words
you always thought were yours alone.
Nothing comes closer,
it incinerates and restores
while rocking you into an oceanic euphoria;
a personal ocean
one larger then you ever imagined
could be contained within you.
Of cause only a Russian
can dish our the pain of love
and make you long for it.
Only Rachmaninoff
spellbinds while leaving you
stunned, wanting to dip a toe
into the deep tides of his God-space.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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