Reading Concerto: Bishop, a Poem

Voices are strange, stuttering, stumbling, beautiful expressions of our perception, thoughts, and culturally imbued dialects. Encouraged by another writer on the website The ProseI decided to record a reading of a poem I wrote, not only to share my voice, but to demonstrate how I perceived the protagonist seeing beauty in death. The protagonist: an assassin, an artist. His victim: the Bishop, his canvas. 

Enjoy Concerto: Bishop

Crystalline air simmers
Between blades cutting
Dawn in broad whispers
Stained glass, their vectors

Hymns a choir their resonance
In rising echoes enraptured
Now fading hums to capture
A silence without dissonance

Myrrh's enveloping tendrils
Accent the chapel's song
For tithes kept only for him
Bishop entreats the throng

A hypocrite's homily
Intones from his lips, his mitre
Inspires a proud crowning
His head, this bullet's finale

Beneath tolling bell I lay
Timorous their ringing
Ubiquitous in expectation
Setting death's messenger
In cradle of the chamber

The sun assents a flare
Glinting in my lenses' glare
Our last, final inhalation
Before the performance begins

The trigger begs reprieve
A tug, a shudder, a squeeze
Before booming in ecstasy
Cracking air and glass asunder
Her deadly flourish descends
And death's messenger sings
Before blooming in revelry
For Bishop's final homily

Scarlet graces the altar
A sacrifice, indeed, ignites
The congregations' screams
Their cries, their applause
Beseech an encore from me

But a perfect performance calls
The crimson curtains drawn
Now reverently I leave
His masterpiece for the dawn