We are indeed the music, until the music stops.
That’s what a brilliant soul once said before closing up shop.
An accolade of melody and complex interludes.
Depicting inner essence, defining states of truth.
We all wish life were simple. To what benefit is this?
That our lives should be a single note of small significance?
No melodic company, to fill life’s vast expanse.
No extraordinary serenade, of anger, joy, romance.
We are indeed the music. A tapestry of song.
A symphonic melody one wishes to prolong.
So thread it with emotions, anomalous serenades.
The only ones that get us through each passing day.
Until at last the time comes, when there can be no more.
When one will try to make amends, and pray for an encore.