Young virtuoso

[Armand]

In the silence of the chamber, where shadows softly creep,
There sits a figure, where the violin's secrets seep.
His hands dance upon the strings, a dance of despair,
Each note a whispered promise, in the midnight air.

Rumors swirl around him, of a pact made long ago,
For his talent is too perfect, too darkly beautiful to show.
They say he sold his soul, for a melody so divine,
And now he plays forevermore, in the Devil's design.

Obsession gnaws at his soul, like maggots in decay,
For the perfect symphony, he sacrifices day by day.
Working till his fingertips are shredded, dripping red,
In the pursuit of perfection, where demons tread.

He feels the chill of failure, a specter at his side,
Haunted by the echoes of those who've mocked and deride.
Yet, he persists in his madness, in his relentless quest,
To please the otherworldly ears, of the ones he's confessed.

"Threads twist, shadows hiss... twist, hiss..."