Sweet Bergamasque

She was nothing sweet

like Bergamasque

Could’ve had bits of

Mozart in her

sprinkles of Requiems

yet she didn’t do it for the dead

She did it for the ones

who couldn’t stand her essence

yet craved her

memory

A solemn treaty

of sentiment

Words that could never replace

the inferno that was held

in her veins

but was explored

in her touch

Fire and gold

was what she clutched

Tips of nocturnes

strings of cellos

flowed from her willowy fingers

and even if one tried

you could not touch her