There in the lonely halls of his heart he lived for his music and for remembered love. Alone in his memories he composed the opera, the aria of desire and the beauty, of gentle tears. The sweet crying sounds of music, the passionate tears of delight. It`s a soft swaying dance, he performs, yes so sweet, holding close, memories, scarred by unforgivable sadness.

He alone would dance and as he moved, he cried to all the empty sounds that thundering in his heart. Tasting thoughts of the lips, bathed in candlelight that soothed the passionate objects, the compassion of the shuddering essence of the woman that shared, long ago, rapturous temptation.

This glorious allure of the symphony, echoes within his mind, cruelly tempting tears, alluring whispers crying of sorrow, intoxicating stirring imagination. Memories moaning, touch me he cries to the music, and sways to the darkness, imaginary slave of fascination to the ballet playing within his mind, breathing the air rich and tasting where the golden steps of her melody floated lingering and caressing the angel, the Madonna and the joy that released, the sadness, of no more pain and no more sorrow.

Here beneath the cathedral, entombed within its design are the walking sounds of yesterday. There vibrates the elegance, deep in his soul, of surrender, of self, to the arms of tantalizing seduction. His only purpose, was to please, and to dissolve within her, to release all dreams to her, to serve only to sing, moaning songs to the wind, for the lady of the night.

Shackled by delirium of excitement he served the goddess. To please her, his goal required complete subservience, to only act upon her wishes, to gratify the slow passing of skin passing, gliding down electrifying her eyes, and burning the seething motion of his desire. Raising higher though the clouds of his mind he wished only to lay before her the treasure of his soul and to rip his will and lay it before the eyes of her, the temptress, there to be aroused and used in amorous sexuality. Than so long ago, he lived only for her.

Jailed now in his cell of treachery he is condemned to serve only the obsession of denial. Confined in the music, dancing bereft of substance, the vapor of illusion evaporates and leaves alone, a man buried in need. Seaching still for the woman, the one demanding soul. He seeks what he lost. Traveling the catacombs of reason, looking again to the music, singing to the wind and tempting the sounds of moaning, shifting sighs he writhers with the burning demand for release. Distressing demands for return. He is alone.