A Phantom of the Opera poem
Blue, black and crimson red
Colors dance inside his head
Pale bright, evil light
Illuminate the night
Dance of shadows, waltz of dreams
Things are never what they seem
The musician song turns to a wail
A pitiful cry to his cruel jail
She is his love, he is her curse
He grasps a poor man for her purse.
"Christine." he moans, whimpers, pleads
As into another's arms she flees
His broken heart makes the tears fall down his hollow mask.
Eyes of moonlit shadows, in dullest light they bask.
Tears flow down the smooth white face, like a saddened moon
Painful dog to cruel master obeying every boon
Creature, monster, slave of night, darkness makes his mind take flight.
Sadistic symphony, pained epiphany, he raises the syringe
A needle prick, reality flies slowly off its hinge.
Sleep of angels dance of shadows, an ebony casket appears.
A little bronze key, pretty little thing
A trigger for the final spring.
The scorpion or the grasshopper: Oh which one to turn!
Shall he drown his pointless life or make half of Paris burn?
Half would surely mean her death but now it is his turn.
To wound her the way she had him, he decided she would burn.
When he reached however, for the marble switch.
A pain caused his hand to stop, his fingers began to twitch,
He could not do this, not to her and so he turned around,
and reaching for the scorpion he pulled the handle down.
His dream had ended and in life he put the needle down, fingers on the point slowly closed around.
That final sting, that one last high as morphine made him sick.
The scorpion's last venom its stinger's final prick.
He made his choice to that old question of which one is which.
But his childish mind reached for the other switch.
So with his dying grip he turned the real key.
A slow boom and the sound of screams.
A white light, a scorpion, and now his pain is gone.
He lets out one last cry, wailing a note long
The scorpion whispered to him hissed inside his head
The creature made him do it and now Christine is dead.