The Madman

In a metropolis of dusty bones
And rainworn stones
Where names grow dim with years
A madman walks
And plays his violin.
 
The gates are shut
The audience sits webbed in dust
In death wear of rotted silk
The madman walks
And plays his violin.
 
Far away, in another world
Where sleeping souls lie
The most beautiful sound can be heard, in the silence
For the madman walks
And plays his violin.
 
A concert given before the dead and dying
In the dusty clockless hours
Where dirty flowers grow
A madman's whole being gliding across the strings
A soul at the edge of his own grave.
 
But come daybreak
All beautiful sounds must cease
Violin shattered on the ground
A broken little corpse
For the madman walks no more