The Blind Violinist

Inside that mid night subway train

Heard a broken hearted lover play

Plucking strings so they could echo

Those mediocre tunes of utter dismay

Trying to fix her broken pendant, there she was

With her winter scarf wrapped around her neck

Remembering romance of yester nights

Hiding scars of bites and pecks

Dared he, began to play Mozart

Symphony fourty-Molto allegro

Entered E flat major in a haste

Not affecting the smooth flow

Lost in the sanctuary of sins

In that deep state of half asleep

With dreams resting on her eyelids

Of Starry les nuits à Paris

With a half soul, yet giving his best 

Lost in the melody with eyes closed

With a name of past love engraved

On that dusty broken violin's scroll

Her station Chester was next, they announced

She got ready to depart the train

Eyes on the door, heart somewhere in Paris

And walking dans central city in the rain

Lost in thought she walked past him

Her scent so familiar, J'adore it was

"Abby", screamed he, the blind violinist

His wounds still unprocessed and raw

"Mistaken you are", she replied impolitely

Doors opened, wind distributed her scent

He apologized for mistaken identity

Yet memory of past sorrows did augment

Of days full of hopelessness

And nights full of uncertainty

His lover's secret Ménage à trois

Away from his blind sight, a place so privy

The doors closed behind the woman

As she witnessed the train leave

Her pendant broke, landing in her hand

On it was the name engraved Abby

Dorian Gray

In his limpid stillness he stands tall proudly
References made about his distinct beauty
Basil, an artist, secret admirer of the boy
Romantic soul, fearful yet half full of joy
With feelings unexpressed of admiration
Of illusive kisses, desires and temptation
Says Basil,"You have a part of me Dorian,
But you do not care for my pure affection",
While the boy with a stone heart and vanity
With heart breaker qualities and no sympathy
Asks the sinful artist that as his life begins to unfold
To let him stay young & let his painting grow old
"Let it take upon the punishment for my sins,
Allow it to suffer on my behalf somewhere within",
Enters Sybil, the local theatre actress, playing Juliet
Sparks grew, his name got engraved on her heart's slate
Rejection came when he failed to recognize any art in her
She died of love then and there which caused a stir
A life he spent in guilt, helplessness, yet with pride intact
Portrait aging, resembling evil, with beauty subtract
His divided existence based on absolute lies
A life then spent on edges of frailty and vice
Years passed, the evil grew more within
The darkness took over and purity forgotten
He became a murderer, killed the very artist
Who made him famous, a moment not his best
Debauchery took over, daily trips to the opium den
Remained intoxicated in the east end of London
His deal with the devil became over whelming
Fame, vanity, wealth all seemed unappealing
So he turned to the portrait he hadn't seen in ages
Saw ruminations of an unworthy wicked savage
He then stabbed the painting deep in the heart
Destroying the image, Basil's best work of art
As the soul deceased, so did Dorian
His face resembling a horror film villain
A life time spent on the tendrils of immorality
He paid the price of his venomous vanity