Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.
You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.
Click here*
The house where Beethoven was born
has four stories
but it is small
so small and cheerless:
after 233 years
it is tired.
The floorboards creak hazardously
under the feet of tourists
that walk slowly,
apprehensive.
In a corner
two period grand pianos
sit in silence
timidly
fearful of any
unwanted touch.
In every story
in every wall
are old portraits
and old scores
lie drowsily
in tarnished showcases.
Complementing
hearing apparatus
are the hazy eyeglasses
of the Maestro.
His house lies empty
because the Maestro
is gone.
Only in the garden
lingers still
in the soft murmur of foliage
an inaudible voice
a distant sound
that resonates within.
*
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 34,500 poems.
----------
Whereever the Maestro is ~ let him step to the music which he hears ~ however measured or far away.
Despite SJ's acerbic wit, there's much in here to be praised. It's an excellent mood piece, setting the 'feel' for the house. Sometimes the poetic piece should be clear and easily deciphered by the 'average' person without having to have a deep understanding of poetry mechanisms.
Well written and evocative. Very enjoyable. Not sure what the poster before me was on when he read this and made his comment, but I would guess several days short rations and several months without a girl.