They gathered in the violet dark to play,
A band of souls who’d sold themselves to song,
Their instruments like lovers who betray—
The only place the damned and blessed belong.

The banjo man caressed his silver strings,
His glasses thick as all the years he’d spent
In smoke-filled bars where fading spirits ring,
The ghost who played and never would repent.

The trumpeter raised his horn to graze the sky,
A prayer of brass that pierced the velvet air,
While ivory keys bled soft a lullaby
For dancers who had drifted into prayer.

She struck the drum, her silhouette ablaze,
A heartbeat lent to those who’d lost their own,
While guitars wept through veils of amber haze
For wanderers who’d never dare atone.

The music rose like wildfire through their veins,
Each note a needle suturing the wound,
And strangers wailed those nameless, ancient pains
That only ghosts and instruments have crooned.

They played until the darkness knelt, implored,
Until the dawn came bleeding, half-afraid,
A hymn for every soul that life ignored—
The last true light before the world decayed.

The papers told of tragedy next day:
The club burned down—no music, no goodbyes.
But those who passed still heard them start to play,
Their requiem a flame that never dies.